Quotes and Echoes
by somanyhands
Summary: Post-Reichenbach. John doesn't cope well with Sherlock's 'death'. Will Sherlock find out and return in time to save him? Even if he does, what then? 50 Chapters plus epilogue. This started as a couple of related standalone fics, but I decided to continue it as a multi-chapter, on-going story.
1. That's what people DO!

The bedsit was grey. Grey like his soul. Cold. Dark. Lifeless.

John sat on the bed, head in his hands, his eyes cast towards the desk. The laptop - all he has left of his life before - and the drawer that safeguards his long-forgotten service pistol.

Words echoed through his mind, over and over.

"People have died"  
"That's what people DO!"

He closes his eyes, pointlessly, against the wave of emotions: confusion; guilt; panic; grief. So much grief.

"Sherlock!", he shouts. Did he shout it? He wasn't sure. Maybe he did. Maybe it was just another memory.

There were lies. Words were spoken. John knew them all, from memory, despite his vain efforts to forget. He couldn't even do that. He couldn't forget. He couldn't forget any of it.  
Not the words, not the lies, not the pain. Not Sherlock. Not crazy, beautiful Sherlock. Not confident, exhilarating Sherlock. Not stubborn, desperate Sherlock. His Sherlock.

"Sherlock!" His voice sounds hoarse. Wretched.

Then those words again

"People have died"  
"That's what people DO!"

He chokes back a sob and raises his head. Straightening his back and his shoulders, like a good soldier, even a crippled, useless one, should, he sits upright and resolute.  
He looks towards the desk again. The laptop cursor blinks at him, provocatively. He sees hope. He feels it.  
Yes, he nods to himself. He can do this. This is what he needs to do.

He stands and, ignoring his cane, closes the gap between himself and the future.  
Sitting himself down, he glances, once more, at the laptop. Memories flood him: laughter; frustration; adrenaline; love. He allows himself to smile. So much love.  
A tear escapes him and drops to the desk. It bleeds into the worn oak, taunting him. Reminding him. Of what he had. What he lost.

"Sherlock!" he whispers, almost inaudibly.

He can do this. This is what he needs to do.  
Sitting straight, shoulders back, he composes himself and reaches into the drawer, removing the pistol, revelling in its comforting feel in his hand.

Those words again, just one last time.

"People have died"  
"That's what people DO!"


	2. Caring is not an advantage

Three years.  
Three years of hiding; running; fighting.

It was exhausting; debilitating, but it was a means to an end. The elimination of danger. Danger to his friends. Danger to Mrs Hudson; to Lestrade; to John. The elimination of danger to John; his John. The one "end goal" that kept Sherlock going; kept him motivated; kept him alive.

Every day was a day closer to going home. Back to Baker Street; back to his friends; back to John. He knew John was no longer living at 221b but he couldn't help wondering; hoping that John wouldn't hesitate to return there when Sherlock... no, he couldn't think it. Not yet. He still had one thing left to do; one loose end to tie up. He needed to get this over with and then he could return; to London; to Baker Street; to John.

Mycroft had been sparing with his details about John's well-being, but Sherlock had been able to deduce much more than had been shared.

"Caring is not an advantage, Sherlock", Mycroft reminded him. Often. Too often.

Sherlock wondered at the futility of that statement. What was he doing all this for - chasing, hunting, fixing; killing - if not because he cared? Maybe it was Mycroft's way of showing he disapproved, but Sherlock had been grateful for the support his brother had given him since his 'death'. It hadn't escaped Sherlock's attention, however, how anxious Mycroft sounded - oh, he tried to hide it, of course, but, when it came to one another, the Holmes brothers were really too good at reading between the lines - each time he enquired after John, and it was this disquiet that led to Sherlock's sense of urgency.

Four days later and Mycroft receives a text.  
Three words.

"It is over."

He makes calls; arrangements; pulls strings, and, within 48 hours, Sherlock is standing in his brother's office; impatient; fidgety; anxious to get home. To get back to 'normality'; to whatever it was he and John had - or have left.  
Mycroft looks up, grimly, from his laptop. Clearing his throat, he engages his battle-weary brother, eye to eye, in a way that makes Sherlock feel more than a little uncomfortable.  
"Sherlock..." he begins, hesitating; as if unsure how to continue, "Sherlock, there are... 'concerns'... about John."

Sherlock leans across the desk, reaching far into Mycroft's personal space with ease; face to face; almost nose to nose. "Mycroft, where is he?" he demands. "NOW!"

Mycroft nods. "There is a car waiting", he imparts, wearily, as Sherlock turns and sweeps out of the office, without so much as a backwards glance.

Mycroft turns his eyes back to the screen; the discreetly hidden camera; the grainy but distinct outline of Doctor John Watson in his flat, and he winces at what he sees there. He sees sadness; desperation. He sees something else too. Decision; determination; resolve.  
At that moment, Mycroft sees the future.

As he watches the doctor straighten up and stand, he only hopes that Sherlock can get there in time to change it.


	3. Heroes don't exist

John closed his eyes in a futile attempt to settle his nerves. How hard could this be? He'd decided; he'd acted. He HAD decided, hadn't he? He was so certain this was what he needed to do. He shook his head, to clear his scrambled thoughts, and took a deep breath...

"JOHN!"

Wait! What?  
Was that...?

The voice sounded distant; outside? Or in his head. John had no idea which.

He banged his fist on the desk. "Damn this! Damn my messed-up head", he chastised himself.  
He composed himself once more, and started a countdown.

"Five", he starts, confidently; with conviction. Quick mental check-list. Gun loaded; safety off...

"Four", he smiles; closes his eyes; pictures Sherlock; his Sherlock. "Soon", he thinks; knows, "Soon..."

"Three", John raises the pistol to his head. For a moment, he comes back to himself. He falters as a thousand thoughts flood his mind. He glances around as he tries to make sense of them. He's in his flat. he's at his desk. Maybe he should have done this on the bed? In the bathroom? Who will find him? Who will clear up his mess; his blood... He growls at himself, impatiently, and continues. He needs to do this.

"Two", deep breath. Focus. Yes, this is what he needs to do.

"One"... John swears his heart feels as though it is going to break through his chest. Adrenaline coursing through every vein, every fibre of his being, and he's back there. He can feel everything; the thrill of the chase; the laughter; the noise; the drama. It's making his head swim, and suddenly the noise and the drama are closer; deafening him; all around him; not just in his head but in his room, and the only thing he can see is Sherlock.

He can see Sherlock; he can hear Sherlock; hell, he could almost reach out and touch Sherlock.

John closes his eyes and prepares to let go of his pain.

Sherlock.  
Yes.  
This was what he needed to do...


	4. Friends protect people

Sherlock swallowed down the nerves, as the government-owned sedan headed towards John's flat. If ever he needed to control his emotions, now was the time. After all he had been through over the past 3 years, this was what he had worked for and, during those three years of running, hiding and fighting, he had never felt a feeling of pure panic like he did right now.

Mycroft had told Sherlock more with every move; twitch; expression and blink than he had with his few words. The detective knew John had suffered after St. Bart's but this was John: John the soldier; John the doctor.  
John had seen death. Death on the battlefield; death at work. He wasn't the type to fall apart at death... was he?

Sherlock and John had become friends. Did being his friend make a difference to how John handled Sherlock's death?  
Sherlock tried to unravel his chaotic thoughts as the vehicle carried on through the London traffic. Thousands of people, going about their everyday lives without a single thought to the turmoil going on inside one lone black car.

Three years for this; for John. He was on his way back; back home to John, except now he had no idea what he would find when he got there.

"There are 'concerns' about John", Mycroft had said. Concerns? Sherlock had heard every change in his brother's voice during that one, short statement, and it had said far, far more than the words alone could ever say.

John needed him.  
John needed Sherlock.

Right now, in this car, it didn't matter whether caring was an advantage; sentiment was losing; or alone protected him.  
John had once said to Sherlock that "friends protect people" and, for the last 3 years, Sherlock had been doing just that; protecting his friends. He couldn't accept that, after all he had been through, he might fail at the final hurdle. That was unacceptable.  
Sherlock did care. He cared about John and John needed him.

As the car slowed outside an old, grey tower block, Sherlock cast his eyes upwards towards 15 storeys of dull. Was this what John thought his life was now?  
The block was cold; dark; lifeless. Is this how John felt?  
Sherlock suppressed the tremor that involuntarily ran through him, almost knocking down the driver as the car door was opened for him.

"Flat 6", he said, flatly, emotionless - how could he be emotionless at a time like this? - "3rd floor", he continued, climbing back into the car.

Sherlock almost ran into the front door as he barged into it, expecting it to just open automatically. In his mounting panic, he couldn't work out which buzzer was flat 6 so, impatiently, he began pressing them all, randomly.

"JOHN!" he shouted, directing his call towards the entire building. Surely John would hear him anyway - the 3rd floor wasn't that high up and he couldn't see too many windows on that floor.

"Hello?" a voice answered, through the intercom. Sherlock ran back to the panel, having no idea who had responded; which flat.  
"John?" he questioned, "John Watson?"  
"Flat 6: 3rd floor. I'll buzz you in", the voice replied, coldly. Without a thought for courtesy, Sherlock pushed through the door as it clicked open.  
"JOHN!" he yelled, climbing the sterile staircase. First floor… second floor..."John?"

Third floor. He scoured the doors for number 6 and started knocking, frantically.  
No response. No response. Mycroft had implied that John was home, so why wasn't he answering?

Desperate knocking became hammering and shouting, and suddenly there was chaos in the corridor. The owners of flats 4 and 5 appeared in their doorways, apparently unhappy at the noise Sherlock was making, and soon there were many voices shouting.

Sherlock decided enough was enough, as he rushed at the ageing door, shoulder first, snapping its lock and swinging it open, violently.

"John!" he almost whimpered, taking in the sight before him.

John; his John: a broken, desperate man; with a pistol to his head and a serene smile on his face.


	5. Interlude

News of his brother's death - his murder, at the hands of one Sherlock Holmes - had travelled quickly, across Moriarty's network. Well, what was left of Moriarty's network: those who had survived Sherlock's three year hunt.

Sebastian Moran had been the best: the best of the best. Moriarty's right-hand man and the sniper ordered to take out John Watson if Sherlock Holmes didn't die. Sherlock didn't die, of course. Not only that, but he had gone on to take down the web of destruction that Moriarty had careful woven before his own, untimely death. The final part of that process had been the elimination of Sebastian Moran: a goal that had been achieved less than one week earlier.

With Moran out of the picture, Sherlock had surely assumed he was safe to return to Baker Street; to London; to John.

What Sherlock hadn't counted on, however, was a vengeful Severin Moran: determined to avenge his brother's death; to finish his job; to take out John Watson and destroy Sherlock Holmes, once and for all.

And so Severin Moran had watched and waited.

As he focussed his binoculars on the flat across the street and observed, he wondered, for a moment, whether he would need to do anything at all. It looked as though John Watson - soldier and doctor - was about to save him the trouble...


	6. One more miracle

Time stood still. Or did it speed up?

It was like a whole lifetime happened in those 30 seconds. Like everything was on fast-forward and paused; both at the same time.

Home; Harry; University; Work; Afghanistan; London; Sherlock.

Sherlock. He had seen Sherlock. He had heard...

"JOHN!"

...Sherlock.

John's eyes flew open and, turning towards the door of his cold, grey, lifeless flat, he saw a ghost...


	7. Dont be dead

"JOHN!" Sherlock shouted; desperation in his voice.

He watched John turn and saw the pain of three years - of a lifetime - in his face. He saw thoughts, fears and emotions, and then he saw something else; something... new.

"Sherlock?" His voice was so small; so lost.

"John... John, give me the gun." Sherlock held his hand out and carefully; tentatively, took the pistol from the soldier's grasp.

"Sherlock?" John fell; his entire body crumbling under the weight of a thousand days. Sherlock instinctively wrapped his arms around his frail, trembling doctor. "I am here", he reassured as his eyes surveyed the interior of the flat. There were cameras, he knew. Mycroft's and who knows who else's. As he glanced towards the window, checking for outside CCTV, something caught his eye: a shadow in a window; subtle; hidden; covert. Three years had taught him to both employ and recognise such movements and, in an instant, he was on alert.

"Good LORD!" a voice exclaimed from behind him. Mycroft. Mycroft had followed him. For once, Sherlock gave thanks for his brother's insistence on knowing everything; seeing everything. John's gun still in his hand, he needed to move fast. "Mycroft, please", he made a silent demand of his brother - if you just do more one thing for me, do this - and Sherlock was gone. Out of the flat; out of the block; Mycroft watching after him.

"Sherlock?" Mycroft was brought back to the here and now by John's voice.

"Yes, John. Sherlock", he replied. "There is much to explain, doctor but, rest assured, Sherlock was here; Sherlock IS here and all will be explained soon" Mycroft hoped he sounded calm enough to convince John that he hadn't just seen a mirage; a hallucination; a ghost...


	8. Wrong day to die

He saw the black government sedan pull up outside the block opposite.

He saw him - Sherlock Holmes - launch out of the vehicle and towards the entrance; manic; crazy.

Him. Here. Severin supposed he should have expected this - Sherlock running straight back to John - but actually, he'd expected to have time to complete his mission - his brother's mission - before the detective put in an appearance. A change of plan was required.

Moran looked back towards the third floor window to his mark and, as one Holmes disappeared into the building, another appeared in a second vehicle. This would have to wait. A sole, isolated target he was equipped for. Add two Holmes brothers into the mix, and Moran was really feeling outnumbered and likely out-gunned.

He just needed to do one thing before slipping down and out of the rear stairwell of the block...


	9. Catch you later

_Similarly-styled 15 storey block, but in a worse state of repair than the one John was occupying. _

_Third floor; likely a mirror image; flat 6 then; a place to start._

Sherlock rushed across the street and towards the opposite building. One look confirmed that it was, indeed, in a worse state; the front door ajar - didn't close properly - he pushed through it and raced up the stairs. From a cursory glance at the other floors as he passed, most of the flats appeared empty; abandoned; some used by squatters - junkies, he wondered. The state of dereliction was reassuring, in a sense: nobody to get caught in the crossfire.

He slowed his pace as he approached the target doorway. An eerie silence enveloped the whole floor. An uneasy disquiet left Sherlock feeling apprehensive.

He analysed his location within the building, feeling fairly certain that he was at the correct flat - where he had caught sight of the threat - and took a deep, calming breath before slowly pushing open the door.

No one. Nothing. Maybe he had got it wrong. Maybe it was the flat next door?

Then he saw it.

Out of the corner of his eye, he spotted the paper; rippling slightly in the draught of the poorly-maintained windows.

He approached it with caution, wary of an ambush or a trap, and carefully lifted it, preserving any deductive or forensic evidence it may yield later.

He glanced out of the window: clear view of John's flat; clear view of Mycroft and John: Mycroft standing, stiffly; John sat on his bed, face in his hands. Disturbed patches of dust around the window area: somebody has been here for several days; watching; waiting; planning.

Sherlock felt a tremor through his body - he'd been this close to losing... No, don't... - he raised the note to read...

_Catch you later, Mr Holmes._

_S. Moran_


	10. Prepared to do anything

A slightly-deflated Sherlock re-entered John's building. The adrenaline rush that had accompanied him across the road was gone and, in its place, the comedown that inevitably followed.

As he started to climb the dark stairwell, however, he remembered: John.

Oh dear god, John. His John.

A switch flicked in his brain and, taking the remaining stairs three at a time, he flew higher and higher; closer to John.

Despite his impatience, as he approached the entrance to John's flat, an uneasy feeling of uncertainty and panic grew in him.

What if John couldn't forgive him? What if he hated him? Rejected him? He paused a moment; considering whether returning to John was, in fact, the right thing to do.

Did Sherlock's return to London, even now, put John at risk? With the threat of this " _S. Moran_" - Sebastian? It couldn't be, could it? - Sherlock couldn't help believing that there was a still clear and present danger surrounding him, and that every minute he spent there put John in harm's way.

For a while, Sherlock stood outside the door; his head pounding and his heart racing. He needed to fix this.

He was prepared to do anything, but did that include, once more, leaving John behind?


	11. It's all fine

The silence in John Watson's flat was broken by the sound of Mycroft's phone: a text message from Sherlock.

_"There is something I need to do. Take care of John. I shall be in touch. - SH"_

John looks across at Mycroft, noticing the change in his demeanour. "Sherlock?" he asks - it seems to be all he says lately.

Mycroft nods, grimly. "He's not coming back here, is he?" John continues. Mycroft meets John's gaze: this isn't going to be easy and he needs to handle the situation with care and diplomacy.

"John", he begins, "Come with me to my office. There is much to discuss."

John nods, stands and, gripping his cane, makes to follow Mycroft. He might as well. Really, the day cannot get much worse.

Sherlock is dead.

John is broken.

Sherlock is here.

John is saved.

Sherlock is... gone.

John is... John doesn't know what he is, but he's damned if he's going to let Sherlock and Mycroft keep him in the dark about all of this.

As he leaves, he looks back at his flat: his cold, dark, lifeless flat and his grey, empty life.

Sherlock is alive. This much he knows, and this gives him hope.

Whatever else the day throws at him, it's fine. It's all fine.


	12. We'll just have to do it like this

Sherlock found himself walking away from John... again.

He stopped briefly, to send a text to Mycroft, and headed back out into the street, his mind on the note.

_"S. Moran"_, it had been signed. It couldn't be Sebastian. Sherlock supposed that it wouldn't have been the first 'resurrection' that had come to light that day, but he had made sure that the sniper was dead. Unless a man, with a bullet through the brain, could come to life again too.

No, this was either a sick joke or somebody else; family, perhaps? Sherlock found himself wishing for the former because, quite honestly, the latter option scared him. A relative - brother; father; uncle; nephew; son? - out for revenge: that wasn't somebody Sherlock really wanted to find himself up against, and he realised he would need help getting information: background on Sebastian Moran and whoever this other _"S Moran"_ might be. He needed Mycroft.

Another thought came to Sherlock: maybe, Lestrade could be useful. He could help to protect John. He balked at the thought of showing himself at New Scotland Yard, and swiftly decided against an all-out reveal. Mycroft trusted Greg - although not enough to have kept him 'in the know' over the past three years - and so Sherlock decided he could risk approaching the Detective Inspector privately.

Alone might protect Sherlock Holmes, but right now he was all too aware that he needed outside help.

As he walked along the street, still unsure exactly where he was heading, he made a decision. "We'll just have to do it like this", he told himself.

Retrieving his mobile phone from his pocket, he scrolled down his contacts until he found the one he needed - _Lestrade, Greg_ - and pressed the call button.


	13. I don't just do what your brother tells

Greg sighed and rubbed his hands over his face. This latest murder case - two children: each abducted from their bedrooms and dumped ten days later - was going nowhere. Clues were elusive; witnesses were uncooperative; forensics were lacking. What he wouldn't give for a dose of Holmes deduction right now.

At that moment, his personal mobile buzzed in his pocket - number withheld. Greg rolled his eyes and moved to answer. "Lestrade", he announced, impatiently.  
"Good morning, Detective Inspector. I trust you are well?"  
Oh great - Mycroft Holmes. Greg chuckled inwardly, deciding that, in future, he needed to be more careful what he wished for.  
"What do you want, Mycroft?" he responded, unintentionally coldly.  
He heard Mycroft clear his throat and then hesitate. Mycroft Holmes actually seemed... worried?  
"If you could spare me an hour, Detective Inspector, there is a matter that requires your attention, which would be better discussed... " the usually-confident and steady Holmes paused, "... in person."  
"I don't suppose you are actually _asking_ me?" Greg responded. He knew this dance. Mycroft Holmes requested your presence; you went. No discussion; no debate; no choice.  
A faint chuckle came down the line. "A car will be with you in fifteen minutes, Detective Inspector. We shall see you soon"  
A soft click ended the call and Greg huffed out a breath that he hadn't really noticed he was holding.

"We" Mycroft had said "we". Greg supposed it could just be the formality of the British Government, but there was something about the way Mycroft had said it that made Greg wonder.

He was brought out of his reverie by his phone buzzing again; another call. Number withheld - must be the day for it.  
Greg briefly considered ignoring it but changed his mind, deciding the day couldn't get much worse than being summoned by Mycroft Holmes anyway. Maybe this was Mycroft again, calling to... do whatever it is Holmeses do when they are worried.

"Yes?" he barked.  
A throat cleared at the other end, and Greg had an eerie feeling of déjà vu. "Lestrade?" the voice enquired.  
That definitely wasn't Mycroft, but it couldn't _possibly_ be who it sounded like, could it?  
"Greg?" the voice continued, not sounding completely calm itself, "It's Sherlock. I need your help."


	14. I'm not actually that angry

John followed Mycroft into his office. When he had last stood in here, seemingly a lifetime ago, there had been anger; accusations; harsh words.  
This time, there was a disquieting calm about the meeting.  
Mycroft took his chair, and motioned to John to join him in being seated.

"You have questions", he began. A statement; not a question, of course.

John took a deep breath before daring to answer. He was certain that attacking the elder Holmes verbally would be a fairly pointless approach, so he settled on a calm, restrained response; hoping he could maintain it long enough to get the explanation he felt he was owed.

"Mycroft, I am not an idiot. Please do me the courtesy of not treating me like one." John swallowed, nervously and felt ridiculous that, even after all he had been through, being sat across from the elder Holmes still made him feel like a naughty schoolchild in the headmaster's office.  
Mycroft nodded, and he pulled a file from the top drawer of his ostentatious and ridiculously oversized desk.

"It was... necessary for Sherlock to have everybody believe that his... "

_Dear god, even the British Government itself struggled for words sometimes_ , John thought

"... suicide was real; that his death was final."

How Mycroft managed maintain such a blank expression while talking about the subject, John had no idea. All of John's instincts were still screaming "he's dead", even though he knew better. He supposed Mycroft had probably known the plan from the outset, so he didn't have these feelings to contend with. If, indeed, Mycroft had feelings at all.

"There were dangers", Mycroft continued, oblivious to John's internal dialogue, "to people who needed to be protected. Sherlock's friends were threatened and the only solution presented to him was for him to... do what he did."

Mycroft was on a roll now, but John interrupted, "Friends?"

A barely-contained chuckle escaped Mycroft, as he carefully worded a response. "Detective Inspector Lestrade", he started, "Mrs Hudson and, of course..." he looked John in the eyes "... you, Doctor Watson."

"Moriarty had snipers strategically placed to kill each one of you, unless Sherlock died. They had to believe he was dead, and for that to happen, everybody had to believe it. It was, Doctor, the only way he could be assured of your safety."

Mycroft's attention turned to the file under his hands, stroking it almost fondly before sliding it across the desk to John.

"Sherlock has spent the past three years hunting down and... " he needed to choose this next word very carefully "...eliminating these snipers, thus removing the risk to himself and to you. Until this morning, we were of the opinion that the threat had been neutralised." Mycroft tried to project composure and control, although his ignorance of this morning's precise problem made him deeply uncomfortable.

"And now?" John asked, not yet daring to actually open the file that sat in front of him. He was still managing to remain outwardly calm although he had no idea how. So much information. Sherlock had been forced to fake his death to protect John, Greg and Mrs Hudson? And then, he'd spent three years tracking down and - what was the word Mycroft had used? - eliminating snipers? Sherlock had killed to protect him? He chuckled to himself as the thought that _"this makes us even then"_ crossed his mind. Sherlock was alive, but he was not here.

"And now, Doctor Watson, I am unsure. It seems there may be a new threat." Today's events had led Mycroft to suspect that this was the case, but he saw no need to elaborate to the doctor: not before he knew specifics. "I assure you, Doctor, that Sherlock is acting in everybody's best interests. He was placed in such a position that left him with no option other than to do what he did. Please do not take it personally that you were not privy to such plans. When Sherlock returns, if you could just give him a chance, I am certain you will come to understand." Mycroft looked intently at John: a look John remembered well: deduction. Mycroft was trying to deduce John's reaction to the news. He probably expected an emotional outburst; sentiment; anger?

"Mycroft," John began calmly, "I'm not actually that angry."


	15. Time to choose a side

"Detective Inspector", Mycroft greeted Greg as he entered the office.  
Greg nodded, mutely, and glanced across to where John was sat, swirling what looked like Scotch around in overgrown crystal. Greg knew that he himself looked and felt rough, but John looked a thousand times worse. He supposed that wasn't really surprising given the events of the morning that Sherlock had shared with him. Greg hadn't been in contact with John for months. He'd known John wasn't dealing well with Sherlock's 'death', but he'd had no idea just how far gone John had really been. God, this was messed up.

Sherlock was alive. Sherlock bloody Holmes. Alive.  
And damned if he'd been expecting _that_ when he woke up this morning!

"John", Greg addressed the exhausted-looking man. John looked up and gave Greg a smile: a battle-weary smile that said so much.  
Mycroft motioned to Greg to sit and poured him a drink. "I appreciate that you are on duty, Detective Inspector, but I suspect that our discussion will require a little... something." He passed him a crystal glass of the liquid gold and continued, "There has been... an 'incident' this morning, Detective Inspector."

"Greg", Greg responded. "Please, Mycroft. Call me Greg. Detective Inspector is so... formal." The way Greg felt this morning; he felt anything other than formal, despite his current surroundings.  
Mycroft swallowed and nodded. "Of course... Greg", he smiled.  
"And I already know about Sherlock", Greg continued, "so... we can skip that whole malarkey."

Mycroft raised an eyebrow at Greg's choice of words, and John let out a barking laugh. "This is completely crazy, Greg", he said, shaking his head at the madness of it all. "Totally and utterly bonkers."  
Greg gave John a warm _"I'm right there with you, pal"_ smile and took a deep breath. "I've spoken to Sherlock and he's asked me to pass on some information." No point in beating about the bush, he thought, "There's another sniper."

Both Mycroft and John shifted in their seats: to business then; this wasn't over. "Do continue, Detec... Greg", Mycroft encouraged.

Greg proceeded to give the men all the information that Sherlock had given to him: the shadow in the window; the note; the threat. "He has asked me to arrange for protection for you, John, until he can eliminate this current threat. Once he has done that, he will come home again."

John stood quickly - too quickly - then swayed violently before Mycroft could grab his arms and guide him back down. "Greg", John's voice sounded as though he was starting to lose the fragile control he had on his emotions - it'd been one hell of a day - "Greg, are you telling me that Sherlock expects me to just sit around, twiddling my thumbs, while he goes off chasing some madman, hell-bent on killing him? Or me? Or both of us?"  
"Sherlock spent three years chasing 'madmen', Doctor Watson", Mycroft interjected. "He is more than able to deal with one more." John made to stand again, gaze fixed on the elder Holmes.  
Greg looked to Mycroft, then to John. "I don't really see what choice we have, mate", he tried; going for informal and, he hoped, calming: in contrast to Mycroft Holmes' damned British formality and stoicism. "I have no idea where Sherlock is heading and there's little to go on. Sherlock: he still has his contacts." John looked to be somewhat placated by this as he sat down again, lifting the crystal and emptying it in one long swallow.

"Mycroft", he started, firmly, "I have absolutely _no_ intention of doing nothing while your deranged brother attempts to single-handedly rid the world of an equally-deranged hit man, or whatever he is. Greg, I know you have spoken to Sherlock and he has asked you to keep me out of it, but do you honestly expect me to accept that? Three years, he was gone. Three years. Alone. Well, not this time."

The soldier stood: back straight; shoulders back; cane ignored; hand steady.

"Greg. Mycroft. Time to choose a side."


	16. Behind you one hundred percent

"Information, Mycroft. Now, if you please!" Sherlock burst into the office, demanding.

Mycroft closed the file he had been reading, deliberately slowly. "Sherlock; brother. Good to see you." His response was purposely flat, almost sarcastic. "Please; sit."  
The lanky detective threw himself into one of Mycroft's chairs, with a long, exhausted sigh. "Please, Mycroft", he pleaded, wearily.  
Even the great Sherlock Holmes had only a limited supply of adrenaline, and today he was running on empty.

Mycroft nodded, and pushed a manila folder across the table to his brother. Sherlock slid it towards him and noted the name. "_Severin_ Moran?" he queried.  
"Brother", Mycroft clarified. "Sebastian Moran had a younger brother who, unfortunately for us, appears to be not only to be out for revenge, but also highly trained."  
Sherlock began flicking through the pages of Severin Moran's file. "There's... something else", Mycroft started, warily. Sherlock looked up to see his brother seemingly-idly examining his perfectly-manicured nails. He closed the file and gave Mycroft his full attention. _If Mycroft is worried, this 'something else' is not good_, he thought. "Mycroft?" he asked, urging his brother to continue.

"It's John," Mycroft began. "Did you really think he would agree to hide away while you hunt down this latest threat, Sherlock? He's a soldier, not a damsel in distress." Sherlock shifted in his chair and swallowed hard. Actually, he didn't believe that for one minute, but that doesn't mean he hadn't hoped it. "He needs to let me do what I need to do, Mycroft", he responded. Mycroft raised an eyebrow but allowed Sherlock to continue.

"I've spent three years doing this.", he went on, knowing he wasn't telling Mycroft anything that he didn't already know, "This Moran appears to be out to get _me_ but everybody around me is at risk. I need to protect John. I need him safe." Sherlock could feel his heartbeat quicken - anxiety? panic? sentiment? - and closed his eyes, in an effort to keep hold of his emotions.

"Sherlock", Mycroft leant across the desk and placed a hand on his brother's arm. It was intended as a comforting move, but the touch, alien as it was, was disturbing. Mycroft understood. He understood Sherlock's attachment to John. In those few short moments at John's flat, he had seen everything between them. "Sherlock", Mycroft repeated, "I will help you in whatever way you need. I am behind you one hundred percent, but this is not the same as..."  
Sherlock removed himself from his brother's touch. "I fail to see why not", he interrupted.

Mycroft shook his head, knowingly. "This is not the same, my dear brother, because this time, you are _not_ alone"


	17. You're not haunted by the war

"He's alive, Greg" John declared, as if breaking the news rather than affirming it.  
"Yep." Greg trailed a finger through the condensation on his pint glass, watching the water bead, and run down the sides.  
"Alive. He's been alive all this time." John felt the need to repeat this. It's news: BIG news. Impossible news.  
Greg let out a sudden barking, but empty laugh. "Yep!" He looked up at the doctor, to find him staring right back at him.

"We can't let him do this, Greg", he said, intently. "Three years he was gone. Three years alone. I grieved for three years. Dammit, I was so close to..." he cut off, unable to finish that thought. "I know this madman appears to be targeting Sherlock personally but he doesn't need to be alone any more. I need to do _something_."

Greg nodded, absently. He was having trouble processing the news himself. After three years, he'd moved on. Moved on from Sherlock; moved on from John. Now that he knew how badly John had been doing, he felt more than a little guilty. What kind of friend distances themselves from someone at a time when they need them most? Greg decided he'd been a pretty rubbish one.

"You seem very eager to go off chasing bad guys again, mate", he tried for casual, but came off sounding disinterested. John studied Greg's down-turned face. He saw guilt and lots of it.

"It wasn't your fault, you know", he waved a hand in front of Greg's face, in an effort to get his full attention. Greg sighed and took a long gulp of his beer. "It wasn't", John repeated. "I was bad company. I never blamed you for... " he paused, hunting for the right words "... drifting away. Help me?" he continued, "Help me to help Sherlock take down this Moran guy, once and for all."

Greg lifted his head and took a long, hard look at John. He actually looked better than he had done for a long time; years. If Greg didn't know better, in fact, he would swear that the doctor seemed positively radiant. _What a difference a day makes_, he thought. He found himself reflecting John's genuine smile. "You're crazy, you know that?"

"It's a Holmes thing", John winked. Greg nodded. He supposed that was true.

"Mycroft has arranged for my things to be moved back to Baker Street", John stated, ignoring the fact that Greg hadn't actually answered his request for help. "He decided that, now that there is no pretense, there seems little point in the flat being empty." Greg could tell the John had almost directly quoted Mycroft and that he was clearly happy with the suggestion.

"It'll be strange; being there without Sherlock. But it won't be like... before." John thought back to the few days he had stayed on at Baker Street after Sherlock's death; fake death. The days when it felt cold and empty; paralysing; oppressive. "When this is all over, Sherlock will move back and life will be back to normal again. There'll be cases, criminals, tea, midnight chases through the streets, meetings at abandoned warehouses, shooting at walls, experiments and..." Greg held up a hand, cutting John's excitable rambling off mid-flow.

"Mycroft agreed to share information on Moran", he blurted out. Mycroft Holmes had been no happier about the idea of Sherlock hunting down Severin Moran alone than John had. "He knows Sherlock won't be pleased about it though."

John nodded. "Obviously", he snorted. "So, where do we start?"


	18. Alone protects me

Intelligence on Severin Moran was sparse. The file Mycroft had given him had contained family information (parents - deceased; a brother, Sebastian - deceased); last known whereabouts (apparently, he had a flat in Kentish Town in which it was thought he had taken refuge after his dishonourable discharge); a photo (approximately 3 years old - taken while he was still in active service) and some printouts of CCTV footage (the most recent being, disturbingly, from a camera on the same street as John's flat - likely when he arrived to set up)

Sherlock considered the information. The note that had been left for him appeared to indicate that he himself had become Moran's target. This was a good thing. As long as Sherlock was the target, and Sherlock stayed away from John and Baker Street, John would be safe. Words echoed in his head. _"Alone protects me." _ How true that was right now. Perhaps Sherlock didn't need to go hunting at all. He was prey. All he had to do was wait for Severin Moran to find _him_, and be prepared for when him he did.

Sherlock knew that word would spread quickly once the homeless network became aware of his return, so he decided that one of his previous hideouts - a run-down flat in a dilapidated North London tower block - would be a suitable place to pretend to lie low. The mighty Sherlock Holmes; rejected by family and friends; forced back onto the streets from which he came. With luck, someone would 'accidentally' let the flat slip as a possible location, if Moran asked around, which Sherlock was fairly sure he would do. After the 24 hours he'd had, Sherlock could probably pass for homeless quite convincingly right now. He grabbed his holdall and headed off.

As he slipped into the flat - unoccupied; empty for at least three months; previous occupants: junkies - Sherlock shuddered. He hadn't anticipated nostalgia or his extreme reaction to it. It was like stepping back in time; to a time of euphoric highs and crippling lows; a time of heaven and hell. His stomach roiled violently at the smell of the place. It smelled of urine and sweat; of desperation and death. He closed his eyes to the assault on his senses and took a careful deep breath. He needed to compose himself and make his arrangements.

Sherlock set his holdall down on an old table - riddled with pockmarks and burns from drug use - and began to set up. If Severin Moran was half the hunter he was trained to be, Sherlock was certain he would not have to wait long.

He looked around again. This place. It made him feel 19 again. It made him feel... strange...


	19. Easy money

Sherlock Holmes might be a genius in all things deductive, but John Watson was well-equipped with his own brand of genius: common sense.

He had given up expecting a reply to his phone calls or text messages, but John knew exactly how to start looking for his missing detective. Mycroft had told him that Sherlock had several places he used to stay during his 'darker days' - places where he would have contacts; most notably, the homeless network. John suspected that Sherlock would start close to Moran's flat, so he made plans to head towards Kentish Town and see what he could find out. The past three years hadn't been kind to John and it wouldn't take much for him to disguise himself as somebody down-and-out and desperate enough to need Sherlock Holmes' help. John was certain that the homeless network would have some information on Sherlock's whereabouts and that he could, somehow, obtain it.

It was getting dark as he exited the Northern Line at Kentish Town. Greg had given John details of the 'homeless hotspot' that John was heading for. He had watched Sherlock enough times to know that money could buy information. He nervously handled the 20s in his pocket. He was suddenly grateful to Mycroft for both the information and the money. Up until now, he had been running on adrenaline but, right here right now, he was starting to feel as conspicuous as he hoped he didn't look.

He rounded the corner into a narrow street and tucked his head down, hoping to god that nobody would recognise him, as unlikely as it seemed. _"Here goes then"_, he thought. _"Exude confidence"_, he told himself, _"just like Sherlock would."_ He chuckled at the notion that he could in any way imitate a Holmes, but before he could give it much thought, a voice spoke to him.

"Need anything, mister?" it asked. John stifled a stutter as he fumbled for a way to answer. He didn't want drugs, which he knew were being offered, so he was about to instinctively decline. Then he thought better of it. A dealer. Of course! A dealer might know who Sherlock was. He pushed aside the concerns that came with that realisation, and reached into his pocket, pulling out a 20 and a photo of the detective.

"Information", he responded, trying to sound confident but not entirely sure whether he was managing to pull it off. He handed both the photo and the money to the voice - a young man in his early 20s. Such a waste of life, John thought before reminding himself that this was Sherlock not so long ago.

The young man nodded. "Seen 'im", he replied. "Or, at least, I 'eard 'e was back." He stopped and looked at the doctor.  
John took the hint and reached for another 20. "This isn't an endless supply, you know", he quipped.  
"Jerry said 'e's got a place up 'ere. Close by. Give us another one o' those twennies an' I'll show you where."

John raised an eyebrow. "Tell you what," he counter-offered. "Get me there safely, and I'll give you double that." He suddenly felt vulnerable, but resisted the urge to feel for his gun.

"Eighty in one night. I'm in", the young man replied, and he held out a hand. "Billy's the name. Keep close to me. This ain't your kind of area, is it mate?" He eyed John, sceptically.

"That obvious, huh?" John asked. Billy shrugged. "Easy money", he responded and started walking.


	20. This guy? A junkie?

As darkness enveloped the squalid, depressing flat, an uneasy feeling came over Sherlock. He was unused to just sitting around; waiting. He wanted to be doing something; anything. Being hunter, he decided, was definitely preferable to being prey.

He could hear sounds elsewhere in the block. Other people - squatters and junkies - hiding out; shooting up; doing god knows what to themselves and each other.

A violent shudder gripped Sherlock, burning him to his core. This was all too familiar. The darkness; the sounds; the...need.

He shook himself; an effort to regain his thoughts. Control. He needed control. He certainly needed his wits about him and impromptu trips down memory lane were not going to help. He removed his phone from the holdall. Six missed calls and nine text messages. All except for one of them were from John (the single other text message being Mycroft - _"Be safe, brother. MH"_), and he was about to press the voice-mail button when he realised he had no network signal: not a bad thing; prevents him from being tracked by his phone, he supposed.

He slid a tattered brown folder out of his bag and stroked it, almost fondly. This folder had been his lifeline for three excruciatingly long years. Notes about everything he had discovered; names of everybody he had eliminated; details; locations; habits; contacts. He flipped open the front cover and smiled fondly at the battered old photo fixed to the inside. A creased and worn picture of himself and John; their first Christmas at Baker Street; John in those damned reindeer antlers that Mrs Hudson had bought for Sherlock.

Sherlock reminded himself that this man - this brave, tolerant and patient man; his friend - was the reason he was doing this. He nodded as his subconscious mind processed this information. John; his John. He straightened up: confident; determined; in control... and started to empty his holdall.


	21. Interlude 2

_Catch you later, Mr Holmes._

_S. Moran_

Nothing says _"Come and get me"_ like a good, old-fashioned, mildly-threatening note. It was only a matter of time before Sherlock would be on his trail and Severin Moran was not going to just sit around waiting for him to show.

He knew that some information about himself would be easy enough to come by, with the right contacts (which, of course, Sherlock had - that damn government brother of his). He knew that Sherlock would have what little background was available: family details (he growled at this thought); military history; perhaps even details of his Kentish Town flat. It didn't take a Holmes to work out that Sherlock would probably start there, so Moran headed out to gather some information of his own.

Jerry's head spun as Moran slammed him back into the alley wall for a second time.

"Holmes", he spat. "Sherlock Holmes. Tell me where this man is or I'll snap you like a twig, you filthy junkie!" He thrust a picture of the detective in the homeless guy's face. Jerry blinked, dazed. "Dervish Tower Flats", he spluttered. "Sixth floor." No honour amongst thieves or junkies, apparently.

Dervish Tower Flats. Moran almost laughed as he dropped Jerry back against a dumpster. Junkie flats. The ex-junkie detective had gone back to his old haunt; hiding out amongst squatters, hookers and other junkies. This was almost too good to be true.

Severin Moran smiled as he realised he wouldn't even be needing his pistol today. An ex-junkie found dead in Dervish Tower? One of dozens, no doubt, and everybody knows that old habits die hard - if, indeed, they die at all.

Oh, this was just going to be too easy.


	22. This is a turn up, isn't it?

Sherlock carefully closed the door to the flat. One infra-red camera positioned in the lobby, and another in the 6th floor stairwell. If anybody came past either, the receiver would beep softly, and the display would light up (thank you, Mycroft!). It was getting late now, and he was fairly confident that there wouldn't be much movement tonight - unless Moran decided to move fast, of course. He certainly wasn't going to rule out that possibility, and having the cameras set up had given him about as much peace of mind as he was going to get in this hateful building.

A distinctively-patterned whistle came from the street out front. _God_, Sherlock thought, _How long since... _He cut short his nostalgia - he really needed to get a handle on that - and replied with a well-rehearsed, albeit long since used, response. A few minute later, there was a similarly-patterned tap on his door.

"Jerry", Sherlock smiled, "It's been a _long_ time."

"Holmes", the man replied, "a long time since..." he trailed off, as if hesitating before seeming to regain his confidence and continuing. "I 'eard you'd gone straight. You don't look like no detective. 'though that's a nice piece of kit..." he rattled off nervously, eyeing the camera display. Sherlock just smiled.

"Jerry", he started, "I'm not here on official business. I'm not undercover or playing both sides, or whatever your group has decided of me. This is personal business. Please, sit."

Jerry dropped himself into an old chair by the window. Better to see if police cars approach, he decided. Just in case.

"Did you bring what I need?" Sherlock enquired, either not noticing or, more likely, ignoring Jerry's apprehension. Junkies were a paranoid lot, and little Sherlock said would have made him feel any better. Jerry nodded and patted his coat's inner pocket. "Thing cost me, Mr 'olmes," he said, before continuing quietly, "It's loaded. Didn't want to carry a piece around without it loaded," Jerry justified. "Even I ain't that stupid. I 'ad to give all sorts of reasons to me boss; why I needed it. Made me pay, 'e did."

Sherlock nodded. He was all too familiar with what Jerry meant by that, and he closed his eyes against the images. There were some things that even Sherlock Holmes couldn't lock away; no matter how impressive his Mind Palace. "Keep hold of it for now", Sherlock told him, pulling out a second hand gun from his holdall. He knew his might be traceable (by Mycroft, at least!), and he'd wanted a second weapon - just in case.

Another buzz came from the receiver, and the screen came to life again, showing the lobby. A sole figure in the darkness. Could be anyone, of course. Sherlock shushed Jerry, readying his pistol as he watched to see if the man appeared on the stairwell camera. Jerry huddled himself into the corner, behind Sherlock, where he hoped he would be either unseen or undetected or, preferably, invisible.

Barely a minute later, the figure appeared on the stairwell camera and turned in the direction of Sherlock's flat. From the closer footage of the stairwell camera, the intruder certainly appeared to resemble Moran, although it was difficult to be 100% certain. Sherlock positioned himself by the doorway. Unsure exactly what Moran would be expecting to find, he decided attack was probably better than defence.

It seemed quiet for an interminable length of time. Seconds felt like hours, and Sherlock was fairly sure he was holding his breath when the door slowly creaked open. _Ok,_ Sherlock thought, _He's going for the stealth approach. Doesn't think I'll be expecting him. Thinks he's the hunter..._

From his position next to the doorway, Sherlock aligned his pistol with the intruder's temple. "Severin Moran", Sherlock started. "A pleasure, of course."

Moran twitched and began to lower his weapon. "Mr Sherlock Holmes", he replied, calmly. "This is a turn up, isn't it?" His face developed an unsettling smile, first looking to Sherlock, and then to the man huddled behind him.

"Jerry," Moran nodded, as Jerry raised his pistol to Sherlock's head...


	23. Bet you never saw this coming

Sherlock sighed as he became aware of the barrel of a gun pressing against the back of his head: Jerry. He lowered his own weapon and placed it into Moran's outstretched hand. He knew when to fight and when to acquiesce, and this was definitely not a position from which he could fight his way out.

"Mr Sherlock Holmes", Moran started, as if telling a fairy tale rather than holding a man at gunpoint, "This is indeed a pleasure. I bet you never saw this coming? Let's get... acquainted." He used the barrel of his own weapon to nudge Sherlock over to a chair, and pushed him down. Grabbing a length of rope from own rucksack, Moran instructed Jerry to tie him tightly. "Arms in front", he added with a smile that was half-smug, half-menacing "then go keep watch out front. Use the signal if anyone approaches."

Jerry nodded to Moran, "Yes, sir", and headed out. Moran grabbed another chair, pulling it opposite Sherlock. He placed his rucksack alongside, and started pulling items out of it as he spoke. "Good kid, that Jerry." he started. "Was quite easily _'convinced' _ to help out. Sherlock closed his eyes, knowing full well what type of _'convincing'_ Moran meant.

Moran continued removing items from his rucksack. "My brother...Sebastian... was a good man. He had taught me everything I know about how to kill a man long before I joined the military." Sherlock rolled his eyes, not really in the mood for a family trip down memory lane. "He used to tell me that you could get the most satisfaction not from the kill itself, but from watching someone die."

He looked around the flat, briefly. "I bet, Mr Holmes, that if you stayed here long enough, you'd probably off _yourself_ and save me the trouble. _"Another ex-junkie gone back to the drugs"_, they'd say. But that's too easy. No fun in letting you do it yourself. No fun for _me_ anyway. I prefer a more... pro-active approach." He stopped speaking, and removed a small box from the rucksack.

"I considered sticking with my original plan; killing your friend John Watson. But after seeing your touching reunion the other day, I decided that maybe you'd be more affected by the knowledge that this time he truly _will_ be left behind to suffer. Give him a couple of months - a year at best - and he'll be sitting in that flat with a pistol against his temple... again. Maybe I'll even check up on him from time to time, just to see how he's doing, you understand. To see his pain; his loss; his suffering. It'll be..." Moran paused for a moment, closing his eyes as if imagining something wonderful "... beautiful."

Sherlock clenched his teeth, in an effort to prevent himself from speaking; shouting; screaming out: all things he wanted to do right now. "Don't worry though, Mr Holmes", Moran continued, "what I have planned for you won't take months or years. Perhaps just an hour or two... if you're lucky."

He opened the box, revealing a filled syringe and a tourniquet. "Your friend Jerry was very... accommodating, when I told him what I needed. Damn good stuff this. High quality cocaine. Far more concentrated that your usual hit, I'm sure. Of course, it's not designed to be a _high_..." he emphasised the word, and deliberately paused, for effect "... it's going to be something a little more... permanent."

Sherlock could feel his heart racing as Moran tightened the tourniquet around one of his arms. Suddenly, his mind was filled with a thousand "should haves". He should have told Mycroft what he was planning. He should have known better than to trust a junkie. He should have told Greg where he was going. He should have told John... he couldn't finish that thought. The things he should have told John. John should have been there with him. Sherlock should have let John back into his life and they should have been "Sherlock Holmes and John Watson", doing this together. Not getting double-crossed by old allies and cornered by a madman out for revenge. For once in his life, Sherlock actually felt stupid. He'd got it wrong, and now he was going to die and John would suffer.

Fingers snapped in front of Sherlock's face, bringing his attention back to what Moran was doing. He glanced at his bound arm, his breathing shallow as he noted the prominent veins. Moran held his arm firmly and slid the syringe in. "Like a knife into butter", he said. "What a beautiful sight."

Sherlock closed his eyes and waited. For the high; for the release; for whatever came next...


	24. He's an arrogant sod

"So, you know who Sherlock Holmes is then?" John asked, as he walked alongside Billy, trying not to look out of place in what was quite clearly the last kind of place he would usually be walking though on a Friday night.

"I 'eard of him," Billy replied. " I'd 'eard he pulled off some scam - big hotshot detective or summat," he continued. John bit his tongue in an effort to not speak against Billy. The kid could have valuable information, and arguing with him wouldn't be the way to get it. "To be honest, mate, I'd 'eard he wad dead. That ain't surprising for a junkie, o' course. Being alive again after being dead. That's more of a shock." Billy laughed.

Hearing somebody talk about Sherlock's death as if it was some kind of big joke almost had John putting Billy in a well-rehearsed choke hold, but once again, he reigned in his instincts and managed to maintain his composure. "So, he's well known 'round here then?" John enquired calmly, as they rounded the corner into an even more dreary-looking street. Tower blocks loomed on either side, all looking derelict and abandoned, but for the squatters and other vagrant types.

"Well", Billy replied, "my boss says 'e used to be one of 'is best customers. Come from money, 'e said, but he's an arrogant sod. Always wants the best stuff..." Billy trailed off, as if realising he might have shared more than he ought. He turned to John and shrugged his shoulders. "Ain't my business, mate. Anyway, we're 'ere."

He nodded his head towards a gloomy tower block. It was covered in graffiti, and the stench as they approached the entrance was horrendous. "That's Jerry!" Billy exclaimed, motioning to a shadowy figure, huddled in the doorway. "Wonder what 'e's doin' 'ere. 'e's a Kentish guy, like me. This ain't 'is patch and the local won't be 'appy if e's poachin'."

Billy's information, innocuous as it may have sounded to Billy, rang all sorts of alarm bells with John. "So, he's not usually in this area?" he asked Billy, quietly. "Nah. Well outta his patch 'ere, 'e is. Oi, Jerry! What you doin' 'ere?" Billy shouted. John shushed him. "This is Sherlock's block?" he asked. Billy nodded. John could feel the adrenaline start to pump through his body. Something was wrong. He didn't really know for certain, but something _felt_ bad. Really, really bad.

Billy approached Jerry, and John observed the two men chatting for a few minutes before Billy came back over to where John was stood, next to the entrance, eyes darting in all directions looking for... something... anything suspicious. "Jerry says your guy is on the sixth floor." he shared. John nodded his thanks and turned to the open entrance door.

"Watch out, mate", Billy added. "He's got eyes in the block... and Jerry say's 'e ain't alone up there..."


	25. You see the battlefield

Fortunately for John, his homeless 'disguise' was pretty convincing. If he was going to get past Sherlock's cameras, without arousing suspicion, he'd need to look like just another junkie looking for a place to shoot up.

He sent a text message to Greg, briefly explaining the situation and giving their location, before pushing open the double doors.

He shuffled through the lobby, hoping his heart wasn't beating as loudly as it felt like it was. He could feel the adrenaline rushing through his system; blood screaming through his veins and drumming in his ears. As he approached the first floor landing, he closed his fingers around the handle of his weapon. Mycroft had once said that when you walk with Sherlock Holmes, you see the battlefield. John couldn't help recognising how accurate that statement could be.

He had no idea what he was going to find on that sixth floor. Sherlock and...who? A contact? More junkies? Moran?

For a moment, John wasn't sure which the worse option was: Sherlock and drugs or Sherlock and Moran. Each had the capacity to be equally deadly to the detective, and John found himself wishing that he'd waited for back-up. He soon dismissed the idea knowing that, once police arrived, the risk to Sherlock would increase dramatically, whatever situation he was in.

John steadied his nerves with a deep breath and continued his climb. Fourth floor; fifth floor... He paused at the bottom of the sixth floor stairwell. If Sherlock was watching for Moran, he would be likely to have a camera set up on the sixth floor too. Being seen on that camera would be more likely to raise alarm than just being spotted in the lobby, but there was little John could do to avoid it. He slowed his approach as he rounded the top of the stairs. There were only two flats without tape across the door, and he could see from the open door of one of those that it wasn't the one he wanted.

John slipped quietly along the corridor, and stopped next to the closed door of Sherlock's flat. He had two options. Knock and wait or burst in. The poorly maintained flat's door frame looked weak, and John decided it probably wouldn't take much to throw it open. Grasping his gun firmly in both hands, he launched himself at the entrance just in time to see a figure huddled over a restrained Sherlock.

As the figure reached for its own weapon, John took aim and fired a single shot...


	26. Falling is just like flying

Sherlock slowly climbed the grand staircase. The opulent decor that surrounded him seemed distant; fuzzy; somehow... different.

He looked around, taking in the beauty and magnificence of his surroundings. The golds and creams; velvets and silks; light and magic. He could hear laughter from one direction. Joyful laughter. Mrs Hudson; Molly; Greg; John. He smiled, trying to work out the direction of the sound; wanting to hear more; to see more.

His heart started to race as the laughter grew closer. The stairs below him listed suddenly, and everything blurred. He stopped to study one of the scrolls on the balustrade. As he reached out to touch it, it transformed into the snarling, growling face of a hound. Sherlock frowned. Something was wrong. Something was very wrong with his Mind Palace.

Then more sounds. Mummy; and Father; and Mycroft. He pictured it: a Holmes family Christmas. The smell of pine, cinnamon and wood smoke. Father, glass of fine Scotch in hand, sat by the fireplace. Sherlock barely a toddler and Mycroft about 9 years old sat at their Father's feet, watching and listening to Mummy play her violin. Sherlock smiled fondly as both memory and sounds became clearer.

He felt the stairs shift under his feet again, and suddenly he was outside, on the roof of his Mind Palace, surrounded by ostentatious towers and turrets. He could still hear the laughter and music from below, but before he could figure out how to get back, the brickwork beneath him moved once more, and he found himself falling.

The rush of wind in his face was exhilarating. The fall seemed endless and the surge of adrenaline that Sherlock felt was intoxicating. Falling really was just like flying, and Sherlock was flying high; higher than the birds; higher than the clouds; falling up, higher and higher...

Until he wasn't. Until his world went black with the crack of a gun ringing in his ears...


	27. Just one more thing

John watched as the dark figure slid to the floor, almost in slow motion. Deep red flowed from its head, seeping into old floorboards, and skin paled quickly; drained of life.

"Sherlock!" John shouted: desperate; panicked.

He ran to where Sherlock sat slumped in the chair, grappling frantically with ropes and ties. A discarded hypodermic needle screamed at his soul and John's medically-trained eye was drawn to a fresh puncture mark on the detective's left arm.

"Oh god, Sherlock", he sobbed, finally freeing him and guiding his limp body to the floor.

_Did Sherlock do this?_ he thought. _Was being here, in this place, too hard? _

_No_, he corrected himself. The figure: Moran? He did this. John should have been quicker; should have been here; should have stopped him.

He battled with hysteria, trying to access the rational doctor and soldier parts of his brain. Cradling his friend's head in his arms, John fought to think: drugs; which drug? Overdose? Symptoms? He couldn't think straight.

Sherlock was breathing short, erratic breaths. He was trembling as if cold despite the increasing body heat John could feel radiating from the detective.

"Stay with me, Sherlock," he begged, "Please... "

His desperate plea went unnoticed both by the body in his arms and the rapidly-cooling figure laid out behind him.

All of John's knowledge abandoned him as he didn't see colleague or patient before him. This was Sherlock. His Sherlock. His best friend. John couldn't help him; he couldn't think; he couldn't fix this.

There was noise and commotion, and he heard voices; shouting; saw men with guns. Dark shadows dragged away the corpse and John thought he heard his name. Greg; he was speaking to John. John tried to listen; straining to hear over the roaring in his ears and the chaos in his head.

"...called for an ambulance... here soon... you ok?... John?..."

He heard fragments; snippets. He felt himself nod, and everything went quiet.

Then there was nothing. Emptiness. Just him and a fading light; a darkness enveloping him. He became momentarily aware of the hypnotic strobe of blue lights in the street. He hadn't noticed before. Slowly, he came back to himself; to Sherlock.

"Oh god..." he whimpered, taking in the sight of his friend fading in his arms. "Hold on, Sherlock." John took a long, deep breath as he willed himself calm. "Sherlock," he began, "just stay with me... just do this for me... just one more thing..."

John turned to see Greg re-enter, followed by medics and a stretcher. Greg placed a hand on John's arm and gently moved him away. "Let the doctors look after him, John." he said calmly, steering his friend towards the door. "We'll follow in my car."

John couldn't reply; couldn't speak; couldn't comprehend. He just watched blankly as the stretcher was wheeled past him. The stretcher carrying the body of his friend: pallid; ghostly; lifeless...


	28. They all care so much

Bleak; cold; sterile; suffocating.  
John felt as if the stark white walls of the hospital waiting room were closing in on him; smothering him; trying to swallow him whole.

Everything was quiet. Dull; lifeless. Ironic, he thought, considering where he was.  
He was vaguely away of a dim beep-beeping sound somewhere close by, and of the hushed chatter of other people; watching and waiting.

Waiting for what? For death? For a miracle? John closed his eyes against the barrage of images that rushed through his mind.

Sherlock's body falling from St. Bart's.  
Sherlock's body laid on the cold pavement.  
Sherlock's body slumped in a chair.  
Sherlock's body limp in his arms.  
Sherlock's body lifeless on a stretcher...

"Not again", he wept, losing the fragile control to which he had been clinging desperately. He fell onto the hospital sofa, sobbing; head in his hands. A door swung open, and Greg and Mycroft entered, both looking pale-faced, sombre and serious.  
Greg sat beside his broken friend and, without a word, placed his hand on John's shoulder. John lifted his head, nodded an expressionless greeting to Mycroft, and rested his cheek on Greg's shoulder.

To hell with how it looked. Right now, John Watson needed to feel _something_: some comfort; some solace; something real.

Mycroft nodded back to John, swallowing down the lump in his throat. Even the great Mycroft Holmes couldn't fail to be affected by this. He lowered himself into a chair opposite John and Greg, and the three of them sat in silent companionship; waiting...


	29. It's just the shock talking

As the door to Sherlock's private room opened, it woke John from a restless sleep.

Pure mental and physical exhaustion had pulled him into slumber; away from soft beeping of machines and the hiss of artificial breaths which acted as background noise.

A quick glance around the room confirmed that Mycroft was also there: sat bolt upright in an easy chair; right hand absently stroking the handle of his umbrella; steely eyes fixed firmly on his brother.

John groaned, stretching groggily, and noted the arrival of a doctor and a nurse who began to examine machine read-outs and charts.

The doctor stepped forwards, offering his hand first to Mycroft and then to John. "Doctor Whatley", he introduced himself, "Do you have a few moments to answer some questions?"

"Of course, Doctor," Mycroft answered, moving to stand at the foot of his brother's bed. "What can we help you with?" He gave a typically-Mycroft smile across to John who was trying to stifle a weary yawn. John nodded his agreement and sat up, giving the doctor his full attention.

Doctor Whatley looked uneasy as he referred to his clipboard before starting. "Firstly, does Mr Holmes have any history of drug use? We are aware that this was not a voluntary administration; however, some background information would be helpful." John shot a look at Mycroft that said _"This one's yours"_ and slouched back in his chair.

"My brother, Doctor," Mycroft began, "has what one might say is a _'troubled history'_ with drugs. However, since his _'association'_ with Mr Watson here, he has showed no inclination to turn back to such... pastimes. He has, to the best of my knowledge, been clean for some 4 years or more." John wondered just how Mycroft could be completely certain of that. In the 3 years that Sherlock was 'gone', there must have been times when Sherlock was tempted, but John made the assumption that, if anybody would know, Mycroft would... maybe.

Doctor Whatley accepted the information willingly however and nodded, adding to the notes on his clipboard as the nurse left the room.

"And you, Mr Watson," he continued, "you are his...?" He left the question hanging; open. Flatmate? Friend? Colleague? Partner? John thought a moment, unsure how to answer, but before he could, Mycroft stepped in. "Mr Watson here is a close personal friend of my brother and a doctor himself." he declared. "Please ensure that he is offered every courtesy and made comfortable. I trust that my brother and I can rely on you and your staff to also keep Doctor Watson informed of all progress?" How Mycroft managed to make such a seemingly innocuous question sound like a threat, John wasn't sure, but he was suddenly grateful for the man and his ways.

"Of course, Mr Holmes." Doctor Whatley responded, "Forgive me, Doctor Watson. I did not recognise you from your photos like I did Mr Holmes." John groaned, not really wishing to be reminded that the past three years had been far more unkind to John's appearance than they had to Sherlock's. "Not to worry." he replied, "So, how is he?" John motioned towards the unconscious detective. He looked pale and fragile, with tubes and pads attached all over him. John swallowed the lump in his throat.

"Well, he isn't out of the woods yet", Doctor Whatley started, not making eye contact with either John or Mycroft as he thumbed through his notes again. "It seems he was given a large dose of quite potent cocaine." _As they suspected,_ John thought. He felt a twisted knot growing in his stomach. Doctor Whatley continued, "We may not know exactly how he has been affected until he wakes. There may be... " he hesitated, nodding as he found the note he was looking for, "Yes, there may also be lasting effects of the drug which we won't know until he has regained consciousness."

John sat forwards. Of course, why hadn't this crossed his mind? Long-term effects. He berated himself for not even considering it. "Such as?" he dared to ask.

"It's difficult to say really," Doctor Whatley replied. "There could be psychological issues such as paranoia; delusions; anxiety attacks. Or, there may be physiological problems like organ damage. We have already begun our assessment of the latter but, until he awakes, it may be impossible to judge the psychological effec..."

"Thank you, Doctor Whatley," Mycroft interrupted, sternly. "If there is nothing else?"

Doctor Whatley looked startled. "No. No, that's good... that's... fine." he stammered and left quickly.

John looked incredulously at Mycroft, watching the composure of the British Government as it crumbled into the easy chair. "Mycroft?" he enquired. Mycroft waved his hand, dismissively. "I'm fine." he answered, closing his eyes. John nodded, sympathetically, and cleared his throat as he considered what he wanted to say next.

"Is it over, Mycroft? This whole thing? Sherlock versus the world? Is it over now?" John's voice was tired. Mycroft opened his eyes and looked impassively at John. "I believe that it is over, Doctor Watson." he responded, his voice firm but deadpan. All composure restored and looking every bit "the British Government" again, he continued, "I shall be returning to my office shortly. I have business matters to which I must attend. I trust you will stay with my brother?"

John looked across to Sherlock and then to Mycroft, who was heading towards the door. Mycroft was leaving?

"Can't it wait? Wouldn't you rather be here? With him? Don't you even feel remotely... responsible?" John wasn't sure where that last accusation had come from, but he was all too aware that he himself was harbouring more than a little guilt about it all. All of a sudden, he felt bitter and angry, and the only outlet he had was the pale, aloof form of Mycroft Holmes.

"I'm sorry... I'm... sorry." John whispered. "It's not your fault. It's just the shock talking... Mycroft... I'm sorry. Thank you... for all of this."

Mycroft nodded and opened the door. "Good day, Doctor Watson. I am glad that you are here for my brother."

John sank back into his chair as Mycroft disappeared into the corridor. He ached all over. His brain ached; his muscles ached; his chest ached; his _heart_ ached. He shuffled the chair closer to the bed and carefully placed a hand on Sherlock's left arm. Desperately tired, he laid his head on the side of the bed and closed his eyes. Just as he felt himself drifting off into another uneasy sleep, he was suddenly aware of more people entering the room.

Doctors; nurses; noise; machines; beeping; alarms. He felt hands guiding him away from the bed and briefly made out the words "... cardiac arrest..." before everything went dark...


	30. The stuff that you wanted to say

The next time John came round, he was dimly aware of voices. Three people outside the room, discussing a patient. Somebody had collapsed. There was talk of stress; malnourishment; shock; observations needed to be made, yada yada...

It was only when John opened his eyes and looked about that he realised he was actually laid on a bed and, as Greg entered the room, he realised that the people outside had been discussing him. "Greg?" he questioned, slowly sitting himself up.  
"Good to see you awake, mate," Greg put a steadying hand on John's shoulder, "You gave us quite a scare! Nurses said you blacked out when..." John suddenly remembered, "Sherlock?" he asked. He had a vague recollection of alarms and hospital staff, "How's Sherlock?" he repeated.

Greg pulled a chair up next to John's bed and sat wearily. "Stable, they say." he responded, looking John straight in the eyes. What he could see there was heart-breaking: concern; fear; guilt; and something more that Greg couldn't quite name. "He's stabilised, but they're keeping him sedated for a while." he continued. "There is some good news though. All preliminary tests seemed to indicate that his internal organs are undamaged. No long-term damage, at least." John huffed out a sigh of relief. "That's something", he agreed.  
Greg nodded, "Yeah, it is. They said it's partly down to how quickly he was found and treated after being dosed. He has you to thank for that, of course." Greg smiled at John. He could see that the man was completely broken by everything that had happened, but he needed to stop blaming himself.

"None of this is your fault, John. Sherlock has always been stubborn and impulsive, and you couldn't have done anything more than you did."

John shook his head and blinked away the tears that were forming. "What if it wasn't enough, Greg? What if he's..."  
Greg leaned across and put a hand on John's arm. "Hey, you can't think like that, mate. We don't know anything yet. If he's physically OK then his chances of a full recovering must be good, right?" John just shrugged and, with a long exhale, he finally let the tears fall.

"I can't stop seeing him, Greg," he managed to choke out after a few minutes of silent crying. "I keep seeing him... dead. Lying on the ground at St. Bart's; slouched in the chair in that flat; lying on that stretcher... I'm haunted by visions of him... and the thought that I might never be able to say all the things... the stuff that I wanted to say but didn't say it... I just... I can't..." he trailed off, unable to say more.

Greg's hand tightened on John's arm. "I know, mate." he said softly. "I know."


	31. You have to stay with him

Soft, white light.

That's what Sherlock first notices.

Light. No shadows, just a soft, reflective glow.

Calm; peaceful; quiet.

For once in his life, Sherlock actually basks in it.

Slowly, he becomes aware of a voice. A familiar voice: Mycroft.

Sherlock smiles (and since when does Mycroft's presence make him smile? But it seems normal and welcome and comforting).

"Brother", Mycroft starts, clearing his throat. He's been told that the sedation has been stopped, but it will take a while for it to clear from his system and for Sherlock to wake.

"My dear brother."

For a moment, it seems as though Mycroft has no idea what to say, and that thought amuses Sherlock. Mycroft lost for words. A first time for everything.

"We were all very worried about you, Sherlock", he eventually continues. "You gave us quite a scare."

Sherlock's heart clenches for a split second, as he feels a pang of guilt. _John..._ he thinks.

"John," Mycroft carries on, as if hearing Sherlock's thoughts, "John didn't take it well. He... he followed you to the flat. He disposed of Moran. He saved your life."

Mycroft goes quiet, and the only sounds in the room are the soft beep of a machine and the quiet breaths of two men.

After a minute, Mycroft speaks again. "He's been here in the hospital since you came in. Four days, Sherlock. He hasn't eaten; hasn't slept properly; and when you went into cardiac arrest... well, he isn't doing good, brother. He has suffered enough guilt and loss for a lifetime." Mycroft almost sounds emotional as he places a hand on his brother's before turning to leave.

"Sherlock, please... you have to stay with him."

Sherlock frowns. He can tell Mycroft was troubled, but he wasn't sure whether he was troubled by Sherlock's health - why? Sherlock was fine here - or troubled by John.

John. He needs to get back to John.

He hunts around the white space, looking for the door. There must be a way out of here somewhere. He starts tapping and banging on walls, hunting for an exit.

"Sherlock?" He hears a voice. It's soft; quiet; tentative, but he hears it. He recognises it: John. He instantly stops making noise - _must hear John _ - and listens.

"Sherlock?" John repeats, swallowing hard. Is he crying? Sherlock can't tell, but he sounds like he is. "Sherlock, the nurses said that they had stopped the sedation. If you're going to wake up, it should be soon. I don't know if you can hear me but... " Sherlock hears John's voice hitch, a tear maybe, _Oh John_ "Please, Sherlock, be OK."

"I don't know if you remember, Sherlock, but Moran injected you with cocaine. He tried to kill you. To overdose you. You should have let me come with you. You don't have to do everything alone, Sherlock. Not when you have friends."

_John,_ Sherlock thought. _My friend, John._ Despite John's pained words, the thought makes Sherlock smile.

"The doctors have said that there doesn't seem to be any organ damage from the drug. We just won't know... " John paused: to breathe; to sob. He threaded his fingers through Sherlock's, "we won't know if there are any other effects... not until you wake up... if you... Sherlock, please wake up..."

Sherlock could hear everything in John's voice. Pain; guilt; grief; fear; love.

Love. Sherlock could feel it. It radiated from John as clear as light from the sun, and Sherlock could feel it all around him. It took hold of his hands; his body; his heart; and pulled him towards John...

As he slowly opened his eyes to the glare of his hospital room, he saw John by his bedside.

Mustering up all his strength, Sherlock squeezed his hand.

"John?" he croaked weakly...


	32. What goes on in that funny old head

Once more, John found himself sat in a cold hospital waiting room. When Sherlock had woken up, hospital staff had swarmed in to attend to him, and reluctantly, John had allowed himself to be led back to a waiting area while doctors and nurses did various tests. Greg had gone to fetch coffees for them both. The waiting room was not only cold and sterile, but it was under-heated too.

The past 4 days had been something of a blur. Hell, the last 3 years had been a blur. Now though, things were starting to look up. Moran was dead; Sherlock was back; Sherlock was _alive,_ John thought. Since Sherlock had burst into John's flat 5 days earlier, he had barely had time to actually absorb that fact. He'd gone from suicidal despair to shock; apprehension to fear; and from pure terror to some kind of autopilot that had been getting him through the past four days while Sherlock was unconscious.

But Sherlock was alive. He was awake, and there appeared to be no long-term physical effects of the attack. This had to be good, right? Sherlock and John: back together at Baker Street. It finally seemed like a possibility.

Greg entered, carrying two vending machine cups, and placed the drinks onto a small coffee table strewn with battered car and women's magazines. John looked at him, hopefully. "Hear anything?" he asked the detective. Greg shook his head and lifted one of the steaming cups to his lips. "Doctors are still in with him", he finally responded, warm coffee breath steaming in the chill of the room. "I asked a nurse on the desk, and she said that they would be trying to assess for any... psychological effects." He paused before finishing. "How on earth you can assess somebody like Sherlock for psychological problems", he continued, "is anybody's guess. Sherlock is hardly 'normal' at the best of times. How will we ever know what goes on in that funny old head?"

John nodded. He knew that to be true, but he also knew that the issues that doctors were looking for were far more serious than Sherlock's usual 'quirks'. Taking a sip of his own warm beverage, he looked up at Greg who was nursing his own cup, warming his hands on the side. He looked tired. John supposed he had also been working overtime, trying to sort out the mess that had been created as well as the time he had spent in the hospital, checking on both Sherlock and John.

"He spoke my name", John said slowly. "I was talking to him when he came round, and the first thing he said was my name." Greg looked up at John, seeing hope in his eyes. "It's a good sign, mate", he reassured.

The door to the waiting room swung open, and Doctor Whatley appeared carrying his clipboard. "Ah, Mr Wat... Doctor Watson", he corrected, "I was hoping you would be here. I trust you are feeling better?"

John wasn't sure how much better he really was feeling. He'd felt disconnected from himself for days, and he really didn't have a clue how he felt. He nodded anyway. "Tired." he replied.

Doctor Whatley smiled at him. "Yes, I imagine so." He flipped through the notes on his clipboard. "We have made some initial assessments of Mr Holmes." he began. "There are a number of psychological issues that we need to be looking out for. Aside from some confusion about events and times, the results seem satisfactory, but really it will be impossible to say for sure for quite some time. We could do more tests, of course..." he trailed off, as if not finishing his initial thoughts. "He's been asking for you, Doctor Watson." Doctor Whatley continued, "he became quite... resistant... demanding to see you before he will cooperate further."

John swallowed the last of his coffee, hoping it hid the lump in his throat. He knew this. He knew that there would be no real way to know how affected Sherlock had been by the massive dose of cocaine that Moran had administered. He also knew that a conscious Sherlock would be a contrary Sherlock, having no doubts at all about just how uncooperative his stubborn detective could be. He placed his coffee cup down onto the table and stood.

"I'd like to see him."


	33. Restoring the balance to the universe

Dull; boring; hateful.

Sherlock made his feelings quite clear about the barrage of tests the doctors and nurses were subjecting him to.

"I'm fine", he barked repeatedly, "leave me and fetch John."

As a second nurse ran tearfully past Doctor Whatley, the doctor sighed heavily and turned to Sherlock. "Really, Mr Holmes, must you upset _all_ my staff?"

Sherlock huffed and turned his head away.

He just wanted to see John. Why could they not understand that? He had woken to see John being hurried away by nurses. He had tried shouting for him to come back, but his voice was dry and hoarse, and the sound wouldn't come out properly. They had prodded and poked at him constantly for what felt like hours, and Sherlock had had enough. He wanted to see John. He _had_ to see John. To tell him.

Doctor Whatley rolled his eyes at Sherlock and made towards the door. "Fine," he nodded, "I'll ask Doctor Watson to come. Perhaps he can help you understand the importance of these tests."

As the doctor left the room, Sherlock suddenly felt anxious. It would be the first time he had seen John since that morning. Since he walked into John's flat just moments before John was going to...

He couldn't finish his own thoughts. He had to make this right. He had hurt John. During the three years that Sherlock had been away, John had suffered more than Sherlock could ever have imagined and then, when Sherlock returned, he hurt John again. He needed to make this right. To fix this mess that he had made. To restore balance to the universe of Sherlock and John. He recalled John's guilt: John blamed himself for what happened as much as he blamed Sherlock. He also remembered feeling something else from John. Something that had pulled at him; at the depths of his consciousness.

He remembered all the times that John had made him laugh. The times he had encouraged Sherlock; told him what was good and not good; helped him to become more... human. He needed to tell John - to _show_ John - that he remembered all these things and that everything would be OK.

The door to the hospital room opened, and John slowly approached Sherlock's bed. "God, Sherlock, you have no idea how happy I am to see you." he muttered, heart in his mouth.

Sherlock blinked: looking at John; studying his face; frowning...

"Who are you?" he said curiously...


	34. We solve crimes together

"Not funny, Sherlock." John rebuked casually. He walked around the bed and pulled a chair up alongside.  
Sherlock gave him a confused look, like a child who had been told off for something that he didn't understand.  
"I'm sorry," he replied, eventually. "It's just... I was expecting John Watson."

Sherlock frowned. The stranger before him wasn't wearing hospital uniform; maybe he was an off duty doctor? Someone Mycroft had paid to watch him?  
"Are you a doctor?" he finally enquired.

"Sherlock..." John sighed, "This really isn't funny. Doctor Whatley said you've been refusing to let the doctor's do any more tests until you'd seen me. It is so good to see you awake. I've been so worried." John was exhausted. Physically and mentally exhausted, but seeing Sherlock awake and talking was lifting his spirits better than a week's sleep could ever do.

Sherlock however didn't look happy. He looked anxious; as if he was trying to solve a case that he knew was unsolvable. "John", he began. "I was waiting for John."

"Sherlock", John replied, placing a hand on Sherlock's, "Sherlock, look at me. It's John. John Watson. We solve crimes together; I blog about it; You forget your pants. Remember?"

Sherlock swiftly pulled his hand from John's, holding it to his chest as if he had just been burned. His breathing was rapid; he was panicking; he felt threatened; trapped.

"No!", he shouted, as he started pressing frantically on the call bell button. "No. I am waiting for John. They said John could come. You should leave now. He'll be here soon. He's a soldier... he..." Sherlock stopped his disturbed ranting as the door opened. Doctor Whatley entered, followed by Greg.

"Glad to see you two", John said uneasily. "Greg, Doctor Whatley." he acknowledged them both, watching Sherlock's reaction for signs of recognition. Sherlock breathed a sigh of relief at seeing the men. "Greg," he said, "Arrest this man. I don't know what his intentions are, but he is claiming to be John, and this is not funny... John is coming soon... Where is he?"

Greg tried to keep up with what Sherlock was saying. He wasn't making any sense but he got the impression, from both John and Doctor Whatley's faces, that something was definitely not good.

Doctor Whatley's face paled, and he looked to John. "I think you'd better wait outside, Doctor Watson." he suggested. "Maybe if Detective Inspector Lestrade here speaks to him..."

John stood, biting his bottom lip. His chest felt constricted, his eyes were burning, and his heart felt as though it was going to rip its way out of his body any second now.  
As he turned back from the doorway and glanced at Sherlock, he saw his best friend recoil from his look.

John didn't stop walking until he was far, far away from the hospital...


	35. Stupid enough to go there

It was only when John got outside that he realised that he actually hadn't any idea where he was. Mycroft had organised their transfers to the private hospital and, in John's weakened state, he'd paid little attention.

The adrenaline pumping through his body had kept him walking for nearly an hour. Blood rushed through his ears, and he was almost oblivious to his surroundings.

Sherlock didn't remember him? No, wait. That wasn't right. Doctor Whatley had said that Sherlock had _asked _ for him so... what then? He remembered him, but he didn't recognise him? How did that make any sense? Sherlock had panicked, thinking that John was some sort of imposter; he actually looked _afraid_ of him. What did that mean? Was this just a passing phase in his recovery? Would he get better? And what if he didn't? John didn't think he could handle Sherlock not knowing who he was...

...And when did it get dark? John frowned as he realised he must have been walking longer than he thought. It was dark, the streets were becoming quieter and he still had no idea where he was.

His phone buzzed in his pocket, startling him awake from his reverie.

_Please stay where you are, Doctor Watson. A car will be with you in 5 minutes. - MH_

Of course it will, John thought, rolling his eyes. Bloody Mycroft and his eyes everywhere. As John sat down on a nearby bench to wait, his brain started on overdrive. Maybe he didn't want Mycroft to come and rescue him. Maybe he didn't _need_ rescuing. True, he didn't really know where he was but it wouldn't take a Holmes to work it out (merely Google Maps!), and John was more than capable of looking after himself. He needed some time out. Time out from this craziness.

He stood again and starting walking, more quickly this time, as he unlocked his phone and opened up his maps. Zooming out from his pinpointed location, he frowned as he slowly recognised his position. How on earth had he ended up back here? He was almost right back at Sherlock's Camden flat, and it suddenly occurred to him that it was pretty much the _last_ place in the world that he wanted to be right now. Unless it wasn't?

He slowed his pace as gradually he began to recognise some of the places he had been less than a week previously. If he thought really hard, perhaps he could remember the route Billy had taken him. The route to the block where it'd all gone so horribly wrong: where John was too little, too late.

As his well-trained senses kicked into action, he became acutely aware of his surroundings. Dark, gloomy alleys; groups of youths drinking; a huddled junkie in a doorway. Suddenly, John felt very out of place; vulnerable and naked without his weapon. He heard whispers and movement and, for a split second, he thought he recognised a voice until he was thrown to the floor, and everything went black...


	36. I don't like getting my hands dirty

His head ached; his back hurt; his ribs felt broken and what the hell was that stench?

John's thoughts were scattered as he came to. He tried to blink away the confusion and take stock of his situation.

He was laid on a hard floor. Cold; damp; felt like concrete. Dim lighting cast faint shadows over old industrial equipment. An old factory somewhere, maybe?

He could smell urine and burning and sweat and a whole load of other mingled smells that he really did NOT want to break down right now. He wretched violently, shouting out as the movement tore at his chest.

Where the _hell_ was he and how the _hell _ had he got there?

He took a careful breath to compose himself and looked about. He couldn't see anybody else, but somehow he didn't feel as though he was alone.

"Ah." A voice came from beyond the limits of his vision in the half-light. In his slightly dazed state, John couldn't work out if he recognised the voice or not. "Nice of you to join us, Doctor Watson."

John blinked and tried to straighten up; tried to look less afraid; more confident than he felt.

"I would say the feeling is mutual" John began, "but, as I don't have a clue who you are, I'd be lying."

The stranger chuckled.

"Indeed, Doctor. Let me remedy that for you. Usually, I don't like getting my hands dirty, but in this case, I have had to make an exception."

John strained his eyes in an attempt to see through the gloom.

He certainly didn't expect to see the person who stepped forward...


	37. Sentiment

"He what?" shouted an extremely irate Sherlock. "You _lost_ him?"

Mycroft sighed and sat on the chair beside Sherlock's bed.

"Sherlock," he began, "it seems as though the good doctor did not wish to be found. I sent him a message informing him that a car would be along to collect him, but he chose to leave. I could not do anything more. He was in..." Mycroft hesitated "... a less than desirable area, with little CCTV coverage. My people are checking what few feeds we have, to see if they can find a trace of him."

"This is my fault", Sherlock started. "I remember everything about John. Everything. What we did before, what I did while I was gone, coming back and finding him..." he choked back a sob - _damn this sentiment _, he thought - "... I remember hearing his voice while I was unconscious, Mycroft. It woke me... but, when he came to see me.. it wasn't him. The person who came wasn't him. He wasn't right... he didn't... " Sherlock stumbled, looking for the right words "... he didn't fit; with the memories in my head."

He banged his fist ineffectually on the mattress. "Damn it, Mycroft. How must I have made him feel? He left and he ran and now he could be god knows where."

"He's a grown man, Sherlock." his brother tried, calmly, "I am sure he can look after himself. He will come round and, when he does, he will come back and you can start to piece things back together." Sherlock noticed as Mycroft fiddled with the top of his umbrella. Mycroft was uneasy. Even he didn't really believe what he was saying. None of them yet knew the full extent of Sherlock's problem. His attention was disturbed when, out of the corner of his eye, he noticed Sherlock move. "Sherlock, what are you doing? The doctors..."

Sherlock cut him off, sharply, "I am not laying around here like some invalid, Mycroft. I have to find John."

Mycroft was about to retort when his phone started to ring. "Ah, news, brother. This is my CCTV team."

"Mycroft Holmes", he announced, formally, picking up the call.

_Good_, Sherlock thought. _A starting point._

He watched and waited as Mycroft listened to the caller. It would not have taken a Holmes to notice the change in his brother's expression as he ended the call.

"Mycroft?" Sherlock enquired, sliding his shirt on.

"Sherlock", his brother began gravely. "It appears as though John may have been kidnapped."


	38. The fly in the ointment

Sherlock shifted uncomfortably in the wing back chair in Mycroft's office. You could cut the tension between the two Holmes brothers with a knife, and Greg was none too happy at feeling like referee and adjudicator in the room.

"You said they found footage of the moment that John was taken?" Greg enquired of the elder Holmes. Mycroft was sat across the desk, slowly running his fingers across a file. Greg strained to read the name on the file but couldn't. Sherlock was staring intently at Mycroft, and Greg couldn't work out whether to be reassured or disturbed by the focus of the two men.

Both Holmes brothers could be brutal when focussed on a main goal. Sherlock had proved this many times previously: while solving crimes with New Scotland Yard; in his battle with Moriarty; and, not forgetting, of course, his ultimate fake suicide; ensuing three year mission; and events since his return. Focus certainly wasn't a problem; drawing lines however had proved to be.

"Quite, yes", Mycroft responded, bringing Greg's attention back to the present. He turned round his oversized computer monitor towards where Greg and Sherlock sat. The footage was dark, but the general picture was fairly clear. John could be seen walking along the street; Sherlock wasn't sure exactly where but he recognised it as being close to Dervish.

What was John doing there? What possessed him to go back to that place? Sherlock was about to verbalise that thought when something on the footage caught his eye. A group of people, not far behind John, were gaining on him. Sherlock squinted at the figures; recognising a few; having a name for only one:

"Jerry", he pointed, indicating an older man who appeared to be instructing three, younger men. "I don't know who the others are", he continued, "but that is Jerry. He's an old _'acquaintance'_ of mine. He was working for Moran; Severin Moran. He double-crossed me." he clarified.

"Yes... well", Mycroft responded, "perhaps this isn't over then. Watch."

As the three younger men in the video footage closed the gap on an increasingly anxious-looking John Watson, the three men in the office watched as John was grabbed, punched and bundled into a dark, plate-less van.


	39. You don't seem very afraid

John groaned as the thug kicked him in the ribs again.

"Do accept my apologies, Doctor Watson." the smug voice droned. "I am afraid that it is necessary for us to obtain some additional footage of your _'maltreatment' _."

John coughed and tried to right himself. "What?" he spluttered.

"I am sorry." the voice repeated, followed by a barked order of "Enough!" to the lackey. "Fetch Doctor Watson here a bottle of water, and see that the video is delivered."

Lackey obeyed and, after bringing John a bottle of barely tepid water, disappeared into the gloom of the building.

"Doctor Watson." the man continued. "If you will allow me to explain, perhaps my intentions will be rather clearer."

John laughed despite himself and sat himself against the wall. The water was refreshing but drinking it was painful with his broken ribs and parched throat. "Knock yourself out", he retorted hoarsely after draining the bottle.

The man looked at him. No, the man looked _down_ at him, with a look of pure hatred and condescension. John shook his head. The similarity was startling. Right down to the facial expressions and looks of pure contempt.

"Please, Doctor Watson. You don't seem very afraid."

The statement sounded every bit as much a threat as if the man had held a knife against John's throat. John swallowed hard, trying to keep his nerves steady. _Don't give an inch,_ he told himself.

"My son," the man finally began. "My son; my _'protégé' _ was a good man. A talented man. He was destined for good things; to be great; to be the best." The man waved his arm in some grand gesture of admiration. "You, Doctor Watson", he continued. "You and your friend Sherlock Holmes have destroyed everything I worked for. Everything we spent so many years trying to build up: an empire."

He banged his fist against a piece of machinery, sending dust flying and the sound echoing throughout the vast hollow darkness.

"Despite our tragic loss, we believed that we could fix the damage. It was bad enough that Mr Holmes then took Sebastian from us. He was a great man. Severin was all too eager to step in and avenge his brother's death, as you can imagine. And then _you_, Doctor Watson", he spat out John's name, "_you_ took out Severin and... well... it became apparent that nothing short of removing _both_ of you, _permanently _, would suffice."

The man circled around the machine table, moving to where John was slumped against the wall.

"Doctor Watson," he said, menacingly. "I have ensured that a video of your kidnap and abuse reaches Mr Holmes, along with sufficient clues to enable him to find us without difficulty." The man crouched so he was speaking to John square in the face.

"And once you are both here," he continued, "I shall have my revenge for James' untimely death."


	40. I always work alone

"So, you say some guy just left this on the doorstep of 221B?" Greg asked Sherlock, as the put the disc into the laptop.

Sherlock nodded. "Addressed to me", he replied, pressing play and maximising the screen. "Mrs Hudson found it on the doorstep this morning and called me."

Greg shook his head. Whatever this disc contained, it was not going to be good. He took a long drink of his rapidly cooling tea. "Suppose we'd better watch it then", he said calmly, sitting back in the chair.

The disc spun rapidly and a dimly lit room flickered into view on screen. The camera shook a few times - somebody adjusting the angle? - and there was John. John Watson, laid out on the ground. Sherlock scanned the image for clues as to the location. Concrete floor, high ceilings and pillars. He could see a long solid wood bench with some sort of old machine fixed to it. A textile press of some sort? Racks and shelving along the rear wall seemed to back this up. An old textile mill. Sherlock knew of only one textile mill that hadn't been regenerated for industrial, business or residential use. He was about to share his deductions with Greg when he saw John move.

Both Sherlock and Greg sat forward in their seats to look closer. They watched as John pulled himself into an upright sitting position - _wincing; guarding his ribs; already injured then_, Sherlock deduced further. There was no audio on the recording, but they could see John grunt as he coughed and made to stand. He had no sooner pulled himself onto his elbows when a stocky man approached him. There was an exchange of silent words, and the man started to kick. One debilitating kick to the stomach saw John hunched over on all fours, and several swift follow-up kicks to his already injured ribs laid him back out on the floor.

During a respite in the abuse, Sherlock noticed John's attention divert to an area alongside the camera position. Somebody was talking to him? They watched John cough again, and then the thug left. He briefly returned with water for John and then disappeared somewhere off camera. Not long after, the footage stopped and Greg and Sherlock found themselves watching a black screen. A split second later, words flashed up on the background.

_Come alone, Mr Holmes, and perhaps your pet will live._

Greg turned to Sherlock, who was already standing and heading for his coat. "Sherlock?" he asked casually. He wasn't sure if Sherlock had any idea where exactly he would be heading but he felt fairly certain that, if whoever had sent the disc wanted Sherlock to go, the clues would have been in the recording itself.

"Inspector", Sherlock started, "I am not going to tell you where I am going because, as we both heard, if you follow me, you may put John in greater danger than he is already. John indicated, on the recording, that there are just two people at his location. I am more than capable of taking out two people, especially when one of those is a mindless thug. You should know by now that I always work alone, and I have no intention of placing any more lives at risk than are already at stake."

Greg watched, dumbfounded, as Sherlock slung on his Belstaff and breezed out of the door. It took him a while to process all that Sherlock had said. _John did what?_ he thought. Greg quickly skipped back the footage to when John was distracted by the person or persons off-screen. In the dim light of the room, he could quite clearly make out what he had previously missed. John signalling two fingers against his right arm. Evidently, even his captors hadn't seen but Sherlock hadn't missed it, of course.

So it was two-on-two. The weakened state of John Watson aside, at least there was a chance of a fair match. Somehow, this thought didn't entirely reassure Greg.

He pulled out his mobile, scrolling down his contacts until he found the one he needed: Mycroft Holmes.

He tapped in the message and pressed send with a long sigh.

_Sherlock has gone to do something stupid. Please keep eyes on him. GL_

Barely a minute later, a reply buzzed on Greg's phone

_Done, Inspector. I shall keep you informed. MH_


	41. Alone is what I have

_Brother, haven't you learned anything from recent events? - MH_

Sherlock sighed as he read his phone message. _Damn Lestrade_, he thought. _Should have known he would have run straight to Mycroft._

He opened a new message and started typing.

_Running to my brother, Greg, really? - SH_

Less than a minute later, Sherlock's phone buzzed again.

_You do remember what happened last week, Sherlock? - GL_

Sherlock stopped to sit on a paint-worn bench. Greg had a point. Sherlock's stubborn, pig-headed "alone is what I have" side was urging him to go it alone, as the man in the video had instructed, but there was also a niggling voice in his head that sounded mysteriously like John Watson, and this voice was trying to tell him that he didn't need to do this alone and, despite the demands, he should accept help where he could find it.

For the first time in nearly a week, Sherlock pulled out a cigarette and lit up. He needed to clear his head and organise his thoughts.

On the one hand, the voice on the disc had demanded that he come alone.

On the other hand, the voice in his head - that John Watson voice - was telling him _"Don't you dare."_

Who was Sherlock Holmes to follow instructions anyway?

He calmly and steadily blew out a stream of smoke and, removing his phone from his pocket, started typing.

_Whindles Old Textile Mill. Do not send anybody until midday, at the very earliest - SH_

It was 9.45am, and it would only take Sherlock about 25 minutes to get to the old mill. He figured that, by midday, either everything would be done and dusted or they would all be in need of help.

Sherlock crushed his cigarette end into a waste bin and stood.

He wished strongly that he still had a handgun in his possession. On his release from hospital, both Mycroft and Greg had made sure that there were no weapons available to him. This frustrated Sherlock. He wasn't a child. He could look after himself. And he damned well would have felt better with a gun pressed against his lower back right now.

He waved down a taxi, climbing in as he gave his destination. "Whindles Old Mill", he instructed the cabbie. The surly driver turned to the rear. "Whindles?" he queried, "You sure?"

Sherlock waved his hand impatiently, ignoring the question, "As quick as you can, please."


	42. I go where you point me

Greg had just arrived at New Scotland Yard and put a coffee on the table when his phone rang.

"Lestrade." he announced with a long-suffering sigh.

If it was possible to hear a smile over the phone, Greg did.

"Detective Inspector... Greg." Mycroft corrected himself, "You work too hard."

Greg laughed, taking a long drink of his coffee. "Yeh? Well, that'll be your brother then, Mr Holmes. He's a full-time job on top of the one I already have." he responded.

"Mycroft, please", Mycroft prompted. Greg grunted. Sure, whatever, Mycroft. Still a Holmes and still a sure-fire recipe for a headache, he thought.

"My brother informed you of his intended destination, I presume?" he continued. "We have no eyes in the immediate area around the Whindles Estate. I trust that you are able to send sufficient manpower to ensure the safety of both Sherlock and Doctor Watson?"

Greg placed his coffee cup back onto the desk with rather more force than necessary.

"Mycroft", he started, "I don't have the personnel available to send at your brother's every whim. I'm sure you are well aware of our current staffing levels." He hadn't meant to sound quite so abrupt, but there was something about trying to justify oneself to the British Government that made Greg tired and frustrated and wishing that his feeble cup of NSY coffee was something much stronger.

He could hear Mycroft typing at the other end of the phone. Probably instructing some poor minions to do some menial tasks deemed too important for the British Government himself to do. Legwork. Right. Greg knew all about legwork. As if on cue, his legs and the rest of his muscles started to ache. He had been working too hard. What with Sherlock's return and the ensuing events, he had barely seen his home let alone slept in it. He needed sleep and lots of it. And possibly a long holiday. Or perhaps some alcohol.

He slipped the hip flask out of his drawer and poured a generous measure of the liquid into his coffee cup.

"Detective Inspector, I am sending a car to collect you in ten minutes and drive you to Whindles Textile Mill. I have ensured that your presence is authorised with your superiors, and I have also arranged for some _'men'_ to be made available to you."

Greg raised an eyebrow. "Men?" he enquired.

"Highly trained men." Mycroft answered. "Should you be required to use them, I trust you will find them quite capable."

A soft click and a dial tone indicated that Mycroft had finished.

Greg flopped back in his chair and rubbed his face with his hands. Grabbing his coffee mug, he drained it dry, sighing as the alcohol-tainted liquid slid down his throat, soothing him.

"Bloody Holmeses." he mumbled to himself.


	43. Are you pleased to see me?

As the taxi drew close to Whindles, Sherlock leaned forwards. "Can you stop here, please?" he requested of the driver. "I'll walk the last bit."

The cabbie grunted an acknowledgement and pulled over alongside a run-down loading bay area.

Sherlock jumped out and, without stopping to thank him, threw a handful of notes into the cab.

He checked his watch: 10.30am. London's morning traffic had meant that the journey had taken slightly longer than Sherlock had intended, but there wasn't much he could do about it. If he trusted Mycroft and Greg, he had 90 minutes to get in and get out. He quickly checked his phone for messages and to put it onto silent mode. The last thing he needed while sneaking around was a call from his brother.

He approached the main Whindles Mill building quietly. Through the grime of many years of abandonment, he could see dim artificial light inside. He surveyed the immediate area for surveillance and, seeing none, chose to head for the door closest to the lit area. He hadn't had chance to obtain building specs or plans prior to the visit, so he would have to go in blind; not really knowing the layout or where he was going.

Sherlock slowed as he got close to the side door. He suddenly became aware that he really didn't have a plan beyond this point. What was he going to do? Just open the door and present himself? Burst in? Then what? He had no firearm and little else to present much of a threat to whoever was inside. He stopped and listened carefully at the door. He could hear vague sounds of movement through the window next to it, but he couldn't make out any specific sounds or voices.

He braved peering into the dusty window. He could just about make out one figure laid prone on the ground - John, he presumed - and another pacing around him. There was no sign of the 'thug' from the recording but he was no doubt close by. Sherlock decided to just enter calmly.

This man, whoever he was, wanted Sherlock.

Well, here he was.

He walked up to the side door and unhurriedly pushed it open.

His eye was first drawn to the huddled figure of John - bruised, bloodied and broken - on the floor. Sherlock resisted the urge to run straight over and check on him (trap - obvious) and instead he closed the door deliberately behind him.

"Sherlock Holmes", a voice stated from behind him. "So wonderful to finally meet you."

Sherlock spun around instantly. That voice. It sounded familiar. It couldn't be, could it?

As Sherlock's face changed in recognition, he was knocked to the ground and all went black...


	44. People will suffer

**25 years earlier.**

James Moriarty Sr. poured himself two fingers of Scotch and lay back in his leather wing back chair.

He was expecting the arrival of his new apprentice at any moment. Some upstart who had been levered into the position by his father.

Moriarty loathed nepotism. His own father had abandoned him at a very young age, and he had never been in the privileged position of receiving any kind of preferential treatment. James Moriarty had worked his way up. He'd worked hard to get where he was today, and today he was in a powerful position in the British Government. Much as he loved his own son, he had vowed to instil in him good work ethics and the desire to work hard to get what you want.

"Never be afraid to put yourself out there", he told his young son, Jim, on his first day of school just weeks previously. "If you want something, son", he continued, "you fight for it."

He didn't want his son to suffer hardship, but he did want him to learn the rewards of hard work. He loved his son more than life itself, and he would do anything to keep him safe.

Today however, Moriarty had to suffer Mycroft Holmes.

He'd met Mycroft only once previously when his father had brought him into the office to introduce him to his future mentor. The boy (because, despite his late teenage years, he still looked like a mere boy in the presence of his mighty father) was confident, stoic, detached. Typically Holmes-like. He was keen to follow in his father's ways, into the British Government, and James Moriarty's office was an influential one.

Over the coming months and years, James Moriarty was rarely seen without Mycroft Holmes by his side. Mycroft proved himself to be intelligent, attentive, fastidious and ambitious, and it was this ruthless ambition that first caused a rift between the Moriarty and Holmes men.

Moriarty had always been a man of ambition himself. He had initially identified with the passion that Mycroft Holmes had shown for his work and his position. However, James Moriarty Sr. had a greater plan. One in which his carefully-planned years in the British Government would prove to be pivotal. He garnered information and contacts, names and locations and leverage. Lots of leverage. He had spent many years meticulously planning his rise with one end goal: to break away from the Crown and into his own Empire.

Mycroft Holmes, as it turned out, was actually just a little too attentive for his own good. He began to notice discrepancies in reports, suspicious movements and records, and things that just didn't add up. He initially approached Moriarty with his worries but, when his concerns were summarily dismissed without investigation, Mycroft became aware that his boss may actually be involved in these activities.

Eager to further himself within the Government, Mycroft threatened to take his concerns to a higher authority and, at this revelation, Moriarty's hand was forced. He had two options: either come up with a way to dis-credit Mycroft Holmes (no small task given his family connections) or prematurely remove himself from his own position in the British Government and go underground to build his Empire.

Moriarty had been hoping for more time. His long-term plan was to wait until Jim was older; more capable of joining him from the start. Moriarty Sr.'s disappearance now would cause his family much heartache but it was a price he would have to pay, if he wanted to be successful. His son could join him later.

Mycroft Holmes would, ultimately, have to pay a much higher price.


	45. This petty feud between us

**20 years earlier.**

Mycroft walked into the Government offices with his head held high as he strode up the steps of the building and into his first day as James Moriarty's assistant. It was a day that both Mycroft and his father had spent much time preparing for. Everything led to this day: the day when Mycroft Holmes joined his father in serving the Crown.

As Mycroft, dressed in his finest Savile Row suit and swinging his umbrella, followed father out of the house, even the young Sherlock looked proud (Sherlock was more interested in becoming a pirate than a boring government drone, of course).

As the months and years went by, Mycroft garnered great respect from his fellow employees, none more so than from James Moriarty Sr. himself. Moriarty had been impressed by Mycroft's passion for the work and often drew on their collective knowledge and intelligence. Moriarty had said time and time again that Mycroft would go far, and the two soon became peers, rather than mentor and apprentice.

Mycroft felt honoured to work with a man who he both admired and respected, and that is why, when things started to go wrong, it caused so much upset.

For several weeks, Mycroft had been noticing discrepancies in bookkeeping, altered reports and misreported events. At first, fearing a clerical error by one of the lower-positioned clerks, he approached Moriarty with documents and evidence. Moriarty's reaction had been alarming: dismissing it with a mere wave of the hand as being unimportant and to just "leave well alone".

Mycroft was increasingly perturbed by this behaviour and soon became suspicious of his mentor's own involvement. He debated discussing it with father but, not wanting to find himself in a position where somebody else made the discoveries and Mycroft himself became suspected, he decided against it and instead took it straight to a higher authority.

Large scale (but very hush-hush!) investigations were launched and, within weeks, Moriarty had vanished completely and Mycroft found himself occupying his old mentor's office full-time.

Father crowed proudly about how well his eldest son had done, and Mycroft tried very hard to be pleased himself.

**Present Day.**

Mycroft had poured himself a stiff drink and just sat himself back down in his Government office when his phone buzzed with a message.

_Call off the reinforcements, Mr Holmes. Let's get reacquainted. Answer your next call. JM_

Mycroft frowned at his phone. JM? He only knew of one "JM", and Jim Moriarty was long since dead and gone (he had ensured it himself - insisting on seeing the body and personally overseeing the cremation).

He hadn't got any further with his thoughts when the phone rang.

"Mycroft Holmes", he announced sharply.

There was a short period of quiet before anybody responded.

"Mr Holmes," a calm voice replied. "It is indeed a pleasure to hear your voice."

Mycroft's heart stopped. He knew this voice. He knew it well. Suddenly, everything came together as though all the missing pieces of the puzzle had just been handed to him on a plate.

JM. James Moriarty Sr. His old mentor and friend. Father of Jim Moriarty. Still alive after all these years.

Mycroft Holmes, for one of the first times in his life, actually felt fear. Genuine, crippling, undeniable fear.

"Mr Holmes." the voice continued. "If you ever want to see your brother and his charming doctor friend again, I suggest you call off your reinforcements and come and join the party."

"You have one hour," he continued, "You know where. And no funny business, Mycroft." He spoke Mycroft's name with a tone of almost affection. An unsettling, disquieting care that made Mycroft shudder.

The line clicked as the call ended, and Mycroft was left in an eerie silence.

Flicking through his contacts, he sent a couple of quick messages cancelling Greg's car and the armed men who had been arranged.

He picked up his intercom phone and dialled out.

"Anthea," he began, "Please send my car."


	46. They're so touching and loyal

"James Moriarty Sr." Sherlock mumbled, sitting up as he pressed a hand to his right eye. His head was still pounding from being knocked to the ground by Moriarty's thug, but it didn't affect Sherlock's memory. "It has been a long time."

Moriarty nodded, humming his agreement. "20 years, Mr Holmes", he continued. "20 years since your _'brother'_...", he spat the word bitterly, "...ruined my plans."

Sherlock had been in his mid-teens at the time, but he remembered the day father had been called to Mycroft's office by Moriarty's superiors. The whole affair had been classified and confidential, and Sherlock had never been told what had actually happened. All he knew was that Mycroft had something to do with Moriarty's disgraced disappearance and that Mycroft had done well for it. It was never to be discussed and Sherlock never asked.

Moriarty looked intently at Sherlock. He was so unlike his father and brother. Siger and Mycroft Holmes were both distinguished men. Sherlock seemed like the black sheep of the family. He had a quiet grace about him, but it wasn't the refined finesse of his brother. Sherlock was unruly and wild; alluring and handsome. He could see what both Doctor Watson and Jim had found so charming and addictive. He paused, continuing his study of the younger Holmes. Sherlock had slid himself over to where John was laid, barely conscious on the floor, and he was slowly using his own scarf to wipe blood from the doctor's face and head.

Moriarty suppressed a fond smile. Such caring between the two. He was almost envious.

"Boys", he started, "I hate to break up the romantic moment, but we do have business to attend to. Mr Grover, if you don't mind..?" Moriarty pulled a pistol from his rear pocket and, levelling it with John's head, signalled to his lackie. Mr Grover approached Sherlock and manhandled him onto a chair, tying his hands behind him. He then turned and disappeared out of the side door.

"Your brother, Mr Holmes, owes me." he started, pressing the cold barrel of his pistol against John's temple, groaning as if it had some therapeutic effect. "He owes me, and I intend to collect. He ruined my career, my family and my life. I was separated from my son Jim, for 10 years until I was able to reconnect with him. Ten years, Mr Holmes."

Moriarty removed the pistol from against John and returned to sit opposite Sherlock.

"That's the thing about family, Sherlock", he said, fondly stroking the back of his hand across those captivating cheekbones. "They're so touching and loyal. Mycroft will be joining us shortly."

No sooner had Moriarty finished talking, and there was a commotion from outside.

Mycroft appeared through the side door, Mr Grover's hand firm on his arm.

Moriarty stood and smiled wickedly. "My dear Mycroft", he beckoned the man in, motioning to the chair he had just vacated, "How _wonderful_ to see you."


	47. More in common that you like to believe

On his entrance into the mill, Mycroft surveyed the situation carefully. John looked badly beaten but seemed to be regaining consciousness slowly, and Sherlock was looking undignified, tied to a chair.

What was most unnerving however was James Moriarty Sr. It had been 20 years since Mycroft had seen the man, and during that time, he hadn't even been certain if the man was still alive.

And now, here he was; in the flesh, stood before him looking every bit the man he had been back then.

Mycroft rolled his eyes as Mr Grover tied his arms behind him and to the chair. "Really, James", Mycroft objected, "it this entirely necessary?"

Moriarty chuckled, walking to stand between Mycroft and his brother. "Mr Holmes... Mycroft, I am in the company of two Holmes brothers and a soldier. I think a little restraint is probably wise, don't you?"

"Your brother", he continued, turning his attention to Sherlock, "is quite a beautiful creature. I can see why my son was so taken with him. I am sure he identified with such captivating genius." Neither Mycroft nor Sherlock missed the crack Moriarty's voice at the mention of Jim Moriarty. Sherlock sent a questioning look to Mycroft, who returned the glance with a small nod.

"He was insane", Sherlock calmly added. Moriarty bit his lip in a not-entirely-successful effort to control his temper.

"He was a genius." he shouted, slamming a fist down on a table, creating a cloud of floating dust in the dim light. John groaned in the corner, slowly coming round. Moriarty gave a nod to Mr Grover who checked his watch and approached John with ropes to tie him.

"My son", he took a long breath and carried on, "was taken from me. He was just ten years old when Mycroft forced my hand. He grew up without a father figure; without ME!"

Another groan from John alerted Sherlock to his consciousness. Despite his mind playing tricks on him, not initially recognising John as the man of his memories, he still felt the pull to him. Sherlock strained to turn round and check on his friend. "You OK, John?" he asked.

John grunted an affirmative.

"So lovely, aren't they, Mycroft?" Moriarty smiled at John. "You can almost feel the love."

Mycroft kept quiet, not risking a response to the unpredictable man who was now crouched next to the doctor, studying him.

"Have you ever loved anyone, Mycroft?" he continued, ignoring Mycroft's silence. "Ever _truly_ loved someone? I loved my son more than life itself. I would have done _anything_ for him. I would _still_ do anything for him. In his name."

"I can see the emotional connection between Sherlock and his little friend here." he motioned to John, who was now securely bound but sat in the corner. "It really is quite touching. But you, Mycroft Holmes, have you ever had that connection with _anyone_? Or is it still just work, work, work with you?" Moriarty came around to stand beside Sherlock, slowly stroking Sherlock's face but keeping his eyes on Mycroft the entire time.

Sherlock flinched at the close contact, and Mycroft's eyes darkened.

"Ah!" Moriarty exclaimed. "Yes!" He started laughing. "I see it now. We have more in common than you like to believe, Mr Holmes. The mighty Mycroft Holmes may be married to his work, but he does have a heart. "

"It will be such a terrible shame to destroy it." Moriarty slowly caressed his pistol as he picked it up.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "I seriously doubt that killing me will have too much of an impact on my brother." Despite the indifference in his words, Sherlock was starting to get worried. He couldn't reach his watch, but he was sure it was past midday. Where were Greg and his team?

With John bound behind him under the keen watch of Mr Grover, Sherlock couldn't see how he was. He was conscious, he knew, but he didn't know for certain how badly injured he was. Mycroft was putting on an impassive, brave face, but Sherlock could still see the concern in his eyes.

Mr Grover's attention was momentarily distracted by a shuffling noise outside and, before anybody had chance to comment, all outside doors crashed open and a team of men in military gear, rifles at the ready - _SWAT_, Sherlock thought - burst in.

Despite the intrusion, Moriarty levelled his weapon at Sherlock and, as Mycroft launched himself - chair and all - to protect his brother, a series of shots echoed through the mill.


	48. All lives end

The next few minutes were a blur of noise, chaos and commotion. Sherlock was vaguely aware of being untied from the chair by Greg who had entered the building behind the SWAT team.

Several shots rang out in the hollow of the mill, and there was shouting - lots of shouting - followed by the thump of bodies hitting the floor.

Sherlock ran across to John who was now also being released by Greg.

"Took your time", John muttered with a bloodied half-smile, half-grimace on his face. "Yeh, sorry, mate." Greg responded dolefully. "Mycroft instructed SWAT to stand down. Presumably when he came here. You need to thank Anthea." Greg shrugged. He was only really aware of half of what was going on himself. Sherlock carefully lifted John's head and started checking his injuries. "Ambulances are on the way, Sherlock." Greg reassured, walking back across to the team. John nodded, and suddenly, they all became acutely aware of a silence that had fallen over the room.

"Mycroft!" Sherlock remembered. Last Sherlock knew, Mycroft had thrown himself between Moriarty and Sherlock.

He scanned the room which was now a chaotic mess of chairs, men and bodies. He quickly identified Mr Grover, laid lifeless not far from the window, and he spotted a second body which he recognised as being Moriarty.

"Here, Sherlock!" Greg shouted, followed up with "We need a doctor over here. NOW!"

Sherlock looked to John, panic visible in his eyes. "Go!" John instructed. "I'm fine. Go to him." Sherlock nodded and ran across to where Greg was knelt on the ground, untying Mycroft from the chair to which he was still bound. As the last rope came free, Mycroft's unconscious body slumped across Greg, and both men gasped as they noticed the growing dark patch bleeding through Mycroft's waistcoat.

"Send in the ambulance crews!" Greg called out again. "We need them here now."


	49. I'm not okay

As Sherlock sat in the waiting room of the hospital, he replayed the recent events in his mind. He was still having some problems remembering John as the person in his memories, but the adrenaline of the whole episode at the mill had certainly started triggering some recognition. He felt drawn to John, even though he still felt confused about his identity.

He was certain they could overcome this. Eventually, they would get back to how they were before... before all of this; before Moran; before the fall.

Greg entered the room and handed Sherlock a coffee. "They're nearly done patching up John", he shared, taking a sip of his drink. "A few broken ribs and a bit battered and bruised but he'll recover. You can see him soon."

Placing his coffee down on the table, Greg looked directly Sherlock. "No more news on Mycroft then?" he asked hesitantly.

Sherlock shook his head. "Not since they took him into surgery to remove the bullet." he replied with a vacant look.

His brother had been in a bad way when they rushed him from the mill. Moriarty's bullet had hit Mycroft almost square in the chest and there had been massive blood loss. He hadn't regained consciousness at any point between the mill and the hospital, and he had been rushed straight into surgery on arrival.

Greg placed a comforting hand on Sherlock's arm. "They have the best medical staff here, Sherlock." he tried to reassure, "They'll be doing all they can."

Sherlock nodded. He knew this.

Somehow though, it was little comfort as the two of them sat and waited.


	50. My only weakness

John had certainly had better days.

His head hurt, his face felt bruised and he definitely had at least 3 cracked ribs.

As the door to his room opened and Sherlock wordlessly drifted in, John sat himself up slowly, trying to look convincingly okay.

"You look terrible." John said, as Sherlock pulled up a chair along the side the bed.

It drew a smile from the detective. "I was about to say the same to you." he replied with a small chuckle. "How are you feeling?"

John failed to hide the grimace as he made an attempt to straighten up. "Yeah, been better." he replied. "Nothing serious though. What about you?" he asked Sherlock who had leant over the bed and started fiddling absently with the edge of the blanket.

Sherlock shrugged. "Mycroft is out of surgery," he volunteered, "they removed the bullet and stabilised him... " he hesitated a moment, swallowing hard before continuing, "... but they don't know yet..." He trailed off, as if there was more to say, but he couldn't say it.

John nodded. One of the nurses had told him that Mycroft had taken the bullet to the chest and that the prognosis wasn't good. He laid a hand over Sherlock's, reassuringly.

After several minutes just sitting, Sherlock broke the silence. "John," he started. John met his gaze with the kind of smile you give a small child desperately to please. "Sherlock." he replied with a smile.

Sherlock looked timid and almost afraid. "I'm sorry." he started. "I'm sorry for all of this. For leaving; for being too late; for thinking I could do it all alone; I am sorry for it all. I thought that being alone protected everybody else around me; that having friends was a weakness. I was wrong." His eyes fell again, and John felt it: deep in his heart.

John threaded his fingers through Sherlock's.

"I know, Sherlock." he replied. "We're fine. It's all fine."


	51. Epilogue

**SIX MONTHS LATER.**

It was almost like going back to where it all began.

Despite the slow drizzle of April rain, the spring flowers lit up the area like small bursts of light.

_How ironic_, Sherlock thought. _So much new growth and life amongst all this death_.

John leant down and placed an arrangement of white flowers against the shiny black headstone. He tenderly placed a hand on Sherlock's shoulder as the detective stood silently, staring at the ground and worrying a single purple bloom in his fingers.

After several minutes had passed, Sherlock took a deep breath and cleared his throat.

"Happy birthday, brother." he said, settling the bloom against the white bouquet.

As Sherlock and John left Mycroft's grave that afternoon, they stopped by the printers. John examined the cards on the way home in the taxi.

_Sherlock Holmes & John Watson_

_Consulting Detectives _

_221B Baker Street_


End file.
